The Opening Salvo
by lionesseyes13
Summary: See Episode II from the eyes of Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi.
1. Chapter 1

Mandatory Disclaimer: Unless your brain is on permanent leave, you'll understand that I'm not Mr. George Lucas, and, therefore, I do not own anything pertaining to the Star Wars Universe. However, I do own copies of all the movies, which is almost as awesome. (Some ideas were also borrowed from R.A. Salvatore's novel version of _Attack of the Clones_.)

Author's Note: Technically, this is a sequel to my _The Final Mission_, which is a re-telling of Episode I from Obi-Wan's perspective, but I do feel this can stand alone, so you don't have to read that before you read this one. Thanks are due to

Constructive criticism is as welcome as a spring day in January, so feel free to provide it. Flames are unnecessary and counterproductive, since I will listen to you much better if you treat me respectfully, but I find it challenging to take you seriously when all you do is insult me, which is a juvenile approach to life.

By the way, Jedi Knight Luminara Unduli and her Padawan Barris Offee are present on the return trip from Ansion because they are there in _The Approaching Storm_ by Alan Dean Foster, and, therefore, I decided to include them. Next chapter will really being the mission, in case you were wondering. This is more like a setting of the scene…

Reviews: Reviewers will be the honored recipients of homemade pumpkin pie with vanilla ice cream.

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Assassination Attempts and Assignments

We had been traveling through hyperspace at the speed of light for approximately one hour on our return journey to Coruscant from Ansion when I walked by the main console in the cockpit on my way back from the refresher. As I passed the console, my eyes flicked over it out of habit, ascertaining that we were still on course and everything was running smoothly or as smoothly as things could go while flying.

When I noted that the coordinates for re-entrance to real space were too close to (0,0), or Coruscant's location in galactic cartography, I scowled. Someone had switched the coordinates for exiting hyperspace, and I had a shrewd notion as to who exactly had done so…Still, it wouldn't do well to accuse my Padawan of wrongdoing when I hadn't ensured that he was actually guilty.

After all, Luminara might have received an emergency summons from the Council, and, therefore, she might have determined that it would be prudent to chop off two hours from the journey so that she could reach the Temple sooner and depart on a crucial mission. It was also possible, although not probable, that her by-the-book Padawan, Barriss Offee, had decided to break the rules for once and change the coordinates of our hyperspace exit. Or the nav computer could have contracted a virus of some sort because pieces of technology that we relied on were always betraying us at the most important moments when we least expected it.

With this in mind, I whirled around to face my fellow Jedi Knight, Luminara Unduli, who was reading a holobook in the co-pilot's chair, and inquired, "I'm sorry to interrupt you, but you didn't happen to reset the hyperspace exit coordinates, did you?"

"No." Luminara's keen cerulean eyes shifted from the holobook to focus on mine. "Of course I didn't. The nav computer mapped out that course and there's no reason that I'm aware of to deviate from it."

"I agree, and I didn't imagine that you had done so," I answered before turning to regard Barriss, who was well on her way to becoming a talented healer and who was typing up a report on Anisonian physiology on the cockpit's datapad. "Barriss, you didn't alter the coordinates either, did you?"

My tone was non-accusatory, because it was easier to be so with someone who wasn't your own apprentice and because I was about as confident that she hadn't changed the coordinates as I was that Coruscant was the capital of the Galactic Republic. Unlike my rebellious apprentice, Barriss abided by the regulations that were supposed to govern a Jedi's life, which meant that she, like a proper Padawan, would not have altered the coordinates without her Master's consent.

For a moment, I wished that she had been my Padawan, and Anakin had been Luminara's. Maybe I could persuade Luminara to trade apprentices with me, even if it was only for a mission or two…I shook my head to wipe it of such an absurd notion, as Barriss replied, "No, Master Kenobi. I've been working here the whole time."

With me, she didn't need any other alibi, because she wasn't a true suspect at the time. In fact, she never had been a real suspect, and now I knew the culprit. Since there were only four beings on the cruiser and, as neither Luminara, Barriss, nor I had switched the coordinates, that meant that Anakin must have done so. Well, that was no surprise. Much to my aggravation, my headstrong apprentice made a habit of circumventing me like that.

Murmuring my understanding of Barriss' remark, I left the cockpit and strode down the narrow corridor to the sleeping quarters, which was the only other room besides the cockpit in the entire vessel. When we had first boarded the transport for our voyage to Ansion, Anakin had asserted that the Jedi Council had obviously decided to be cheap when they purchased this conveyance, which was why we all had to be cramped into this tiny cruiser. When he had established as much, I had informed him that he should point his finger at Chancellor Palpatine and his tax cuts that had reduced funding for the Jedi. This assessment was greeted with a glower on Anakin's part. Most of my statements recently had been met with a similar expression from my mercurial Padawan.

Bracing myself for what would doubtlessly be another deep and pleasant conversation with Anakin, I opened the door to the sleeping quarters. As I entered, I saw that the young man appeared to be meditating, and I hesitated. Yes, Anakin and I needed to discuss his actions, but it was an occurrence as rare as stumbling across an honest politician to find my high-strung Padawan meditating. The only thing he disliked more about Jedi training than meditating were patience drills, history lessons, lectures on politics, and lectures in general. I was about to depart and confront him later when I detected his eyes twitch. Shaking my head, I took a step forward, and Anakin dropped his charade and opened his eyes as I approached the sleep coach he was sitting, cross-legged, upon.

"You found out about my re-setting the coordinates," Anakin stated as I sat down beside him. He had never been one to hold his sabaac cards near his chest, although in this case it was a boon as it saved me the effort of striving to concoct a non-accusatory manner in which to inquire if he happened to know anything about the alteration in the coordinates.

"Right in one," I observed dryly. "Would that you would show an equal amount of perceptivity in all your endeavors, and both of our lives would be immeasurably less stressful."

Anakin didn't respond, but that was not an aberration. After all, he rarely answered my sarcasm. Perhaps it went over his head or he just didn't share my sparkling wit. Adopting a more serious voice, I continued, "You shouldn't have input those new coordinates without my permission."

"I just lengthened our time in hyperspace a little, Master," protested Anakin, as if he were convinced that was what I objected to, even though we had covered this issue at least one thousand times in the course of his apprenticeship. "We'll come out closer to Coruscant."

"Yes, I am aware of that fact because I can read a holomap, thank you." I emitted a resigned sigh since there was nothing I could do about Anakin's behavior now, of course, for a hyperspace leap couldn't be reset once the jump to lightspeed had been made. Anakin was aware of this fact, and he had chosen to utilize that piece of datum to his advantage to circumvent me so that we could reach Coruscant a few hours earlier. "We cannot exit hyerspace too close to Coruscanti approach lanes―"

"I know." It was as plain as the nose on his face that Anakin was barely managing to refrain from rolling his eyes in exasperation. "We've discussed this how many times before, Master?"

"A conservative estimate would be around one thousand, and that was apparently one fewer times than we needed to," I educated him severely. There were times where I wanted to grab his shoulders and shake sense into him. Honestly, explaining something to my apprentice could be as frustrating and as seemingly futile an endeavor as trying to empty an ocean with a cup with a hole in its bottom. It wasn't that Anakin was stupid. In fact, he was quite bright in an intuitive manner that reminded me of Qui-Gon when he wanted to be. That's what made dealing with him so vexing. If he had been given a wood carving when everyone else had been handed a brain, I could have sympathized with him, but since he was clever, I realized that the only reason he didn't learn the lessons I tried to hammer into his unwilling head was because he didn't wish to.

"Do we need to have this lecture again?" Anakin demanded dully.

"Yes, we do, because you clearly haven't learned anything, my young Padawan," I replied perhaps a tad more sharply than I had intended. Really, though, did he think I enjoyed scolding him? It was a pleasant experience for neither of us, but he forced me to chide him when he repeatedly disregarded my lessons. If he would just follow my directives, life would be so much less complicated for the both of us. "We cannot exit hyperspace too close to the approach lanes. There's too much congestion for a safe flight, and, besides, it's against the law."

"Jedi are allowed to break the law," he pointed out, sticking out his chin stubbornly.

"We're permitted to break laws when the general good of others requires that we do so," I countered, as we rehashed another lesson that we had covered several times before. "However, that is not the case in this matter. The reason you plugged those coordinates into the nav computer was because you were anxious to return home quicker. That is a selfish motivation. In such an instance, you should adhere to the traffic regulations just like everyone else. Acting on selfish desires is the path to the Dark Side. Jedi control themselves and their desires. We've gone over this as well, Padawan."

"Yes, Master." Anakin conceded the point and lowered his eyes obediently. Now he was the perfect image of a pliant Padawan.

"Don't do it again," I added.

"Yes, Master." Anakin nodded again, and I saw that he would not disobey this direct command.

When he seemed so contrite, it was impossible for me to remain stern or cross with him for very long, and, after maintaining my glare for a moment, I relented. In a milder manner, I asked, "There isn't another reason why you wish to return to Coruscant so quickly, is there? You've been sleeping even worse than usual lately― there isn't a link between that and your wanting to reach Coruscant so soon, is there?"

"No." Anakin shook his head in negation. Feigning casualness a bit too obviously, he wanted to know, "Master, have you read the newsdisk today?"

"I have," I answered. That accounted for my good humor, because who didn't desire to awaken to headlines blaring about all the systems that were planning on withdrawing from the Republic and swelling the ranks of those who had already reneged on their allegiance to the Republic? Even though Anakin, Luminara, Barriss, and I had successfully resolved the dispute between the Balawari nomads and the city folk on Ansion, thereby convincing the Anisonians to remain loyal to the Republic despite the Seperatist attempts to lure Anison into their number by promising the city folk that they would turn a blind eye to how the settlers on Anison abused the native Balawari clans, I still felt that our victory was but a temporary one. Granted, Anison had remained in the Republic, guaranteeing that the numerous systems bound by treaties to the planet and those tied to those worlds by pacts would not withdraw from the Republic. Yet, I recognized that the adversary we faced would just sprout three more heads for every one we severed, and that more systems would continue to challenge the Republic. It might even come to galactic civil war for the first time in millennia, especially if this Military Creation Act was passed before the Senate. I was astonished that Anakin had read the news at all, though, because current political issues induced in him a tremendous lethargy. "Why do you ask?"

"There was an assassination attempt on Senator Amidala of Naboo's life," mumbled Anakin, his cheeks flaming as he mentioned this beautiful and passionate woman. His florid cheeks attested to the fact that his boyhood adoration and devotion to Padme Amidala had not been crippled by a decade of separation. Well, he would have to outgrow his infatuation with her sometime. After all, Jedi could not afford romantic attachments. Of course, he was lucky that he was attracted to a senator that he would probably never have to associate with again, because that made overcoming his crush all the easier. For now, I would look the other way and permit him to conquer his heart without my interference. My involvement would only humiliate him unnecessarily. However, this did explain his sudden compulsion to return to Coruscant. Naturally, he would want to investigate what exactly had occurred if he could…

"I read that, yes," I commented, acting as though we were conversing about any political figure. "She has been one of the most influential voices of opposition to the Military Creation Act in the Senate. Therefore, the fact that those who favor its passage would wish to have her done away with is hardly shocking. Remember that those who inhabit the Senatorial District are often as vicious in getting their way as those who live in the Blackpit Slums. Oftentimes, the only distinction between them is that those in the Senatorial District are more likely to hire someone else to do their dirty business for them." After all, it would be a shame to get blood on any part of their five million credit attire.

"You speak of her as if she's just any other politician!" Anakin gawked at me.

"How would you like me to speak of her?" I arched an eyebrow at him.

"You protected her before, Master," he stuttered. "Don't you have any attachment to her at all?"

"Attachment isn't the Jedi way, and, besides, I've protected countless monarchs over the years."

"She's not like the others, though," insisted Anakin, and I confessed mentally that she did seem to possess some semblance of integrity and she did seem to have the courage to follow her convictions until the bitter end. Still, she was a politician, and that was an occupation that I regarded as being equivalent to being a well-dressed and wealthy bandit.

"She is a politician and you must always keep that in mind," I stated, and Anakin nodded reluctantly, but, even as he did so I sensed that he would do no such thing. Ultimately, he learned by the experience of doing, not by listening, and more was the pity. Yet, he would overcome his attraction to her once he had emerged from his lustful adolescent years, and then he would be able to see her objectively, I told myself. I just had to grant him the benefit of time to come to terms with his feelings.

Ten hours later, we emerged from hyperspace. Since we were a Jedi ship, the Coruscanti police in charge of monitoring the space lanes that entered the capital world did not challenge us when we left hyperspace closer to the planet than we should have. As we were Jedi, we were also granted clearance to land much faster than the average civilian, which meant that we were able to land at the Temple docking bay only an hour and a half after we dropped into real space from hyperspace. By Coruscant traffic standards, that was excellent time.

Our legs leaden after an extensive voyage, my apprentice and I parted with Luminara and Barriss and headed back to our quarters. After dropping our bags off in our rooms, where we could unpack them later, Anakin and I trudged down to the dining hall for dinner. When we arrived, Anakin's mood was not lifted when he discovered that the entrée was nexu fish, which was a Mon Calamari dish.

"It's still moving," he complained, spearing at the seafood with an expression of tentative distaste inscribed upon his every feature.

"That means it's fresh," I told him, putting a forkful of nexu fish into my mouth and savoring the tang of the blend of sweet and sharp. Whoever had marinated it had done a spectacular job.

"I thought rations and protein bars were hard to swallow," grumbled Anakin. With a revolted look, he shoved a small amount of nexu fish down his throat, not bothering to chew first, and washed it down with a gulp of muja juice. A hopeful glint shone in his eyes abruptly. "Hey, maybe I can get the attention of a rectory droid, and it can bring me something else."

"The only other meal in this place is Master Yoda's special order stew, and even organisms that would follow him to the gates of death would rather not share a meal with him, since his food tends to cause nausea," I responded. In fact, the sight or smell, even from a distance, had been enough to cause more than one Jedi to vomit in the middle of the dining hall.

"I wish they would let me have special orders," Anakin griped, eating his meal grudgingly.

"If you get to be as good as Master Yoda, they'll cater for you, too."

"I can hardly wait." As he established as much, my Padawan gave up the prospect of consuming anymore of his food and shoved his platter away from him with more vehemence than the task required, strictly speaking.

"Don't talk so loud," I warned him. "The chef might overhear."

"And he'll do what, Master?" pressed Anakin. "Force-feed me more of this gunk?"

I was about to remind him that one ought to behave righteously because it was the moral path, not out of a fear of punishment, when my comlink buzzed. When I checked the incoming frequency, I discovered that it was from Mace Windu.

"Yes, Master Windu." I spoke into the comlink with just enough volume to be heard over the babble filling the dining hall.

"Obi-Wan, the presence of you and your Padawan is requested in the Council room immediately," Master Windu informed me briskly as soon as I answered. "We have a new assignment for you both."

"We'll be there in just a couple of minutes, Master," I promised him, and, satisfied, Mace Windu cut the communication. As I stowed my comlink back in my belt kit, I glanced up at the youth seated across from me at the table. "We've been summoned to meet with the Council now. They have a new mission for us."

"A new assignment already?" echoed Anakin, his eyes gleaming with exuberance. "Wonderful. We haven't even been debriefed about the Anison one yet. It must be really important."

"All assignments are crucial even if they may seem boring, Anakin," I remarked as we both rose, exited the dining hall, and hurried down the hallway to the nearest bank of turbolifts that would carry us up to the tower that housed the Council chamber. "The current Seperatist threat only makes this truer, and we can trust Luminara and Barriss to handle the debriefing just fine without us."

"Sometimes you sound like a protocol droid, Master," mumbled Anakin as we stepped into the turbolift and he pushed in the button for the top floor, shooting me a glance that pleaded with me not to be such a stick in the swamp.

He has a horrible tendency of making me feel as old as the universe, I noted as I reflected upon all the worlds I had seen mentioned in the headlines recently, trying to surmise which one my apprentice and I would be dispatched to. I recognized that I would learn the answer to this in a couple of minutes, but contemplating such matters helped to focus my mind before a mission, and so I did it anyway. At any rate, it was something amusing to do while riding a turbolift, and such entertainment devices should not go underappreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: My sincere apologies about it taking a bit of time to update, but I had a lot of homework to contend with. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter despite the lengthy wait for it.

Speculations and Old Friends

When Anakin and I entered the Jedi Council chamber and adapted the customary position in the center design of the marble floor, Mace Windu opened the meeting with his trademark solemnity. Without bothering with trivial formalities, he stated, "The two of you are doubtlessly aware that there has been an attempt on the life of Senator Amidala, a forceful voice of opposition to the passage of the Military Creation Act."

Given that this story had been a lead one in all the reputable and disreputable sources of news across the Republic and that one would have to have been living under a rock not to have heard of the assassination attempt on Amidala, this was a pretty safe gamble on Mace Windu's part, as far as I was concerned, and Anakin and I both, unsurprisingly, nodded our heads in confirmation. As he made this gesture, my Padawan displayed far more vigor than I did, probably because he approved of the direction of this conversation.

After all, he had wished to investigate the assassination attempt on Senator Amidala, and by the appearance of the current situation, he was about to be assigned to do just that, which meant that his personal interests would coincide with his duty as a Jedi, allowing him to devote his complete attention to discovering the being who had tried to murder Senator Amidala.

Spotting his eagerness, I shot him a quelling glance. If he thought that I was too severe with him on occasion, I was the epitome of a lenient instructor when juxtaposed next to the Council. While I could look the other way when his boyish obsession with the Senator became a bit too apparent to any sentient with semi-functioning eyeballs, the Council would not be so charitable. They would rip out his heart, shred and trample upon it, and then offer him back the tattered and battered remnants of it. Theoretically, this was intended to strengthen his commitment to the Jedi Order, but I wasn't certain that such a method would be very effective with my apprentice. It would be better to permit him to come to terms with the emotions that he possessed that he was forbidden to act upon than to try to force such an epiphany upon him. Anakin had a preference to discover the truth for himself. He couldn't simply be told that something was so without wondering why this was the case.

To my relief, Anakin obeyed my non-verbal directive, and a blank expression fell over his face, as his eyes became opaque just as they always did when he was trying to conceal deep feelings. As Anakin slipped on his mask, Mace Windu announced, "Given the importance of the Military Creation Act in the volatile realm of galactic politics, Chancellor Palpatine has requested that we safeguard Senator Amidala."

"However, welcome our intervention the Senator does not," interjected Master Yoda, his widening eyes emphasizing his point.

Wonderful. Of course Anakin and I couldn't be handed a relatively basic mission after the hair-raising experience that had been our mission on Anison. Sure, while protecting a senator from assassination was a relatively routine and uncomplicated assignment, the fact that Senator Amidala was reluctant about accepting our aid rendered the whole affair more difficult, since it was a challenge to shield someone who resented being defended. I understood why she didn't desire our assistance because, if her years in politics hadn't drastically changed her, something that was always a definite possibility, she was a self-sufficient and determined woman. Therefore, she took umbrage at the implication that she couldn't defend herself, which meant that I would clearly have to be careful about wounding her pride while I dealt with her. The ego of politicians was just one of the myriad reasons why I despised working with them. Hopefully this mission would be over shortly, and not just because it would be dangerous for my Padawan to be near the Senator for a prolonged period of time.

"She maintains that the situation is not serious enough to warrant our involvement," resumed Mace Windu, and I noted inwardly that Amidala's intelligence must have depleted sharply in the past decade if she didn't believe that the possibility of losing her life was anything but a grave matter. Granted, this belief demonstrated her selflessness and nobility, if those attributes could be ascribed to a politician, but it also displayed idiocy since you couldn't serve anyone once you were dead. "Chancellor Palpatine doesn't share her view on this issue, and she has agreed to honor his request to have her be placed under our protection."

As I bobbed my head in comprehension, Yoda added, "Wanted you in particular to defend Senator Amidala, the Chancellor did, Obi-Wan. Believed he did that 'old friends' the pair of you were from the Naboo conflict. Imagined he did that appease that would the Senator. Agreed we did that assigned this mission you could be because just returned from Anison you had."

The wryness that invaded the aged Jedi's tone as he remarked that Amidala and I had been old buddies suggested that he was amused by the Chancellor's assertion. I could understand this sentiment. After all, Coruscant's sky would tumble around us before I claimed friendship with a politician. The notion of Senator Amidala and I being friends was ludicrous. I hadn't invested so much as a moment's effort in contacting her in the past decade, and I was not on her list of beings to invite to her Feast Day celebrations, a fact that truly desolated me. Then again, we weren't exactly strangers, we didn't spend half of our lives striving to orchestrate the demise of each other, and we had once labored together to attain a common objective, the liberation of her homeplanet from the talons of the Trade Federation. I guess in the political realm that made us more than mere acquaintances and exalted us to the august level of friends.

Well, maybe I could appeal to her to tolerate our protection in the name of friendship. A split second after the idea crossed my mind, horror washed over me. Already, I was conniving like a treacherous politician. That meant that by the end of this mission I would have sold my honor to the highest bidder. Apparently, even Jedi couldn't associate with those involved in politics for very long without being infected with their corruption.

While such notions spiraled around inside my brain, Mace Windu concluded, "We wish for you and your Padawan to protect Senator Amidala from any assassination attempts, Obi-Wan. Once you are packed, you will travel to 500 Republica, where the Senator and her security will be awaiting your arrival in her quarters. Do you have any questions?"

"No, Master Windu," I responded, thinking that my mandate was straightforward enough, even if fulfilling it would be challenging at times. It seemed that Anakin did not have any further inquiries, either, for he shook his head.

"May the Force be with you then." Mace Windu closed with the traditional Jedi farewell.

Reflexively, the rest of the Council murmured the same well-wish as Anakin and I bowed, expressed our desire that the Force be with the Council in turn, pivoted, and left the chamber.

Once the door had shut in our wake, Anakin saw no profit in hiding his emotions any more, and he fixed burning blue eyes on me and observed, "Good thing we didn't decide to unpack and then eat, huh, Master? Doing it this way was such a time saver."

"Yes," I answered, half-joking and half-serious, "I'm starting think that we shouldn't trouble ourselves with unpacking at all. After all, we barely spend anytime at the Temple these days, so it seems an utter waste of time and energy."

"At least our lives aren't boring." Anakin shrugged, determined to put an optimistic twist on things as we stepped onto the turbolift and he hit the button for the level where our quarters were.

"With you in it, Padawan, my life never shall be dull," I assured him dryly while the turbolift descended. Just being on a ship he was driving was more excitement than most beings would wish to experience in a lifetime or two, if they happened to subscribe the doctrine of reincarnation.

"I'm not certain if that is a compliment," commented Anakin.

"Neither am I."

"I'm wounded." The serious manner my apprentice was striving to cultivate was spoiled b his smile. Anakin Skywalker was incapable of hiding his true feelings, and he was lucky if he could prevent them from flashing off him like a neon holoadvertisement. This meant that it was easy for me to discern that he was feeling playful, not hurt. "Really, I don't know how the Jedi managed without me for all these years."

"Yes, I don't know what we did without our very own stand up comedian." I was able to maintain a straight face as the turbolift halted its descent at our floor, and we both exited to head to our rooms and collect our bags.

Ten minutes later, Anakin and I were seated next to each other on an airbus to 500 Republica with our duffel stowed in the luggage rack over our heads. The airbus resounded with the shrill laughter and high-pitched chatter of the wealthy politicians and corporate managers who lived in the Senatorial District as they discussed the delicious new Qilarian dish that was all the rage at the ridiculously expensive Manari Restaurant or expounding upon the merits of the Mon Calamari opera that was debuting in the best theaters this week when compared with those of the Sullustain opera that had debuted last week.

Listening to them disgusted me. Never once did I overhear a meaningful remark in all the loud exchanges. Never did I detect did an appreciation for the luxurious lives these organisms lead from any of them. These beings took it for granted that they would consume the highest quality victuals at the most exclusive eateries, wear the finest clothes, and watch the greatest entertainment. They had reveled in these privileges for so long that they had forgotten to value their blessings. They had forgotten that underneath them millions lived in squalor, struggling to find enough food to continue existing for another day. They imagined that because they had never suffered the pain of deprivation that nobody in the Republic did. They had no sense of duty, because they had failed to recall that of those to whom much is given, much is expected.

I was glad when Anakin interrupted my musing, announcing, "Master, I've been thinking."

That's always a bad sign, I noted mentally as I gestured for him to continue. Despite my encouragement, he paused for a minute before he asked, "Who do you believe is behind the attack on Senator Amidala?"

Qui-Gon would have established that speculation was a waste of time and energy because until the possible became reality it was merely a distraction. However, I didn't share this perspective. As far as I was concerned, it was better to think about the future so that when events actually did enfold, there was less of a chance that I would be taken aback by them. Besides, in my opinion, it was better to speculate than to do nothing.

"It is possible, as I said earlier, that those who promote the passage of the Military Creation Act would wish to silence the most ardent voice of opposition to it in the Senate," I reasoned. "Perhaps Orn Fee Ta or Ask Aak arranged for one of their senator sycophants to hire an assassin."

"Could it be the Trade Federation behind it?" proposed Anakin, implying that this was what he had been contemplating on our journey. Intrigued, I eyed him more closely as he elaborated, "After all, they have a grudge against her because of what happened on Naboo."

"But why wait ten years?" I pointed out. I had no love of the greedy Trade Federation, but he would have to have more compelling evidence against them than that, especially if he ever wanted to bring the case before a court.

"Because they wanted to wait long enough that they wouldn't be an immediate suspect," he replied after a few seconds of hesitation.

"It's possible," I answered. "Still, I think it more likely that it came from a more recent adversary of hers. After all, since everybody is aware of the fact that the Trade Federation has essentially thrown in their lot with the Separatists even if no one dares to establish as much aloud, they would perceive Senator Amidala as an ally, not an enemy, if they are half as sharp as they are credited to be."

"Padme would _never_ form an alliance with the Trade Federation after what they did to her homeworld!" declared Anakin heatedly, his eyes snapping.

"Senator Amidala may not intend to aid the Trade Federation," I educated him steadily, electing to gloss over his demonstration of temper. Sometimes it was more prudent to teach by example rather than be words. This was doubly so with Anakin, who had the dreadful tendency of slipping into an autopilot mode of nods and "Yes, Master"s midway through most lectures. "However, that doesn't alter the fact that she is arguably the staunchest advocate for not having the Republic create an army. Thus, since she champions not passing the Military Creation Act, the Neimoidians who control the Trade Federation will regard her as an ally in this mater, as they understand that war with the Republic is hardly a profitable venture."

"They still have a personal vendetta against her, Master," he insisted. "She humiliated them on Naboo, and they'll want revenge for that."

"It's unprofessional to permit emotions to dictate one's business relations," I countered, "and vengeance is an expensive commodity that is not worth its steep price."

"You're so rational, Master," scowled Anakin, "but some sentients have strong feelings and act upon them. Not everyone can be as logical as you."

"More is the pity, then," I commented, reflecting that there would be considerably less warfare, homicide, rape, and robbery if organisms ceased being dominated by petty emotions such as hatred, wrath, lust, and greed and started finding the switches that activated their brains, allowing them to function rationally, instead.

Then again, thought without feeling would not have been a boon to the galaxy, either. After all, psychological testing across species lines revealed that those with slight alterations in brain chemistry that rendered them unable to possess emotions like other mortals had the dubious distinction of being the most likely to commit mass murder because they judged that there was nothing wring with such a heinous crime. Therefore, it was probably better to adopt a moderate middle approach between being an emotional time bomb and a callous scumbag.

As I determined as much, I went on, "Anakin, you must realize that shrewd businesspeople like the Neimoidians are far more likely to be motivated by fiscal rather than personal issues. Doubtlessly, they will spot the benefit of keeping Senator Amidala alive, at least for the time being, so that she can continue to unwittingly pursue their agenda for them."

"There are financial reasons to dispose of her as well," he contended. "All those committee rulings sanctioning them can't have resulted in a net profit for them."

"Yes, all those reparations that they weren't compelled to pay must be so taxing for them." I shook my head. "You know as well as I do, Padawan, that the Senate didn't truly punish the Trade Federation, which in the highest estimation received a mere slap on the wrist from our government. If you ask me, the Senate would have done better to ignore the Naboo crisis entirely if they didn't have any intention of really disciplining the merchant guild. After all, now it is obvious to the Trade Federation and anyone else with the intelligence of a diki bird that the Galactic Senate has as much control over major corporations as an intoxicated man does over his speeder bike. Such a display of ineffectiveness plays directly into the Separatist hands, I'm afraid."

Anakin opened his mouth, perhaps to bemoan the fact that our exchange had morphed into an examination of current political issues which he deemed as tedious to contemplate. However, he was interrupted before he could begin when our airbus swerved abruptly across two lanes of traffic, apparently without signaling with the lights that indicated a driver's intention to turn if the blaring horns of other vehicles in the deadlock that was Coruscanti traffic were any means of judgment, and docked on one of the fifty-three landing pads of 500 Republica.

With its fifty-three landing pads, hundreds of turbolifts, arrays of hidden security armaments, and towering atria, 500 Republica was a world unto itself. Containing more technology than a majority of Outer Rim planets and more residents than some, the sky-piercing structure was the unrivaled gem of the Senatorial District and the elegant cynosure of the district's prestigious Ambassadorial Sector.

What had commenced as a stately building in the classical style had, over the course of centuries, evolved into a veritable mountain of steps and setbacks― some with flat roofs, others as gently sloped as shoulders, and still others as massive as any edifice in the district, which was itself renowned for its towering structures. Higher and higher they climbed, profuse, in seeming competition for Corcusant's sunlight when the sun shone on this side of the world, and culminating in a graceful crown, which was banded with penthouses and topped by a lithe spire. Its head in the clouds like the minds of many of its occupants were, 500 Republica was the lofty vantage from which a privileged few could actually gaze down upon Coruscant.

Which was precisely why the building had become the landmark the galaxy's disenfranchised pointed to when they talked of Coruscant's disproportionate wealth and elitism. This was why 500 Republica was viewed by many as more emblematic of the bloated and indulgent Senate than the Senate's own squat mushroom of a home was. It was here that many accused the crème de la crème of the Republic of doing nothing but exploiting those lower than them, delighting in pleasures they no longer appreciated, and devoting their remaining energy to squashing out liberty and justice wherever and whenever possible.

I couldn't state that I agreed with this assessment entirely, but I couldn't claim that the superskytower brought warm feelings to my heart, either, I noted mentally as my apprentice and I grabbed our luggage from the rack situated above our heads, while the pilot's voice announced unenthusiastically over the PA system that we had arrived at 500 Republica, home of thousands of illustrious political figures and their trophy spouses, popular holofilm actors and actresses, musical sensations, shipping magnates, and media tycoons.

A dozen of these fortunate inhabitants exited the airbus with Anakin and I, and we followed them inside the towering edifice. We trailed behind them to the nearest bank of turbolifts, and boarded one along with a Sullustan senator and a Sullustan female clad in revealing clothing who bore an uncanny resemblance to the diva Eyar Marath, whose heavy isotope music Anakin and I personally found grating. However, we were in the minority if the ratings she received on the Holonet were any method of determining the general public's sentiments about her musical talents, I observed inwardly, as Anakin punched in the button for level four-hundred-and-ninety-seven, which was where Senator Amidala's quarters were stationed.

Out of politeness, Anakin, who was nearest to the turbolift buttons, whirled about to face the two Sullustans, who were kissing each other's dewflaps without any concern for modesty, and inquired shortly, "What level?"

"Four-hundred-and-forty-seven," responded the Sullustan senator, disengaging himself from his partner. This did not, however, make for a more enjoyable flight, because now that they had stopped kissing each other, the Sullustans began flirting with one another, which meant that Anakin and I had no choice but to become privy to a great deal of private data we would rather not have learned about as we pretended to be preoccupied with absorbing the glistening cityscape out of the transparisteel sides of the turbbolift as we rocketed upward.

It's a good thing none of us are afflicted with vertigo, but people with vertigo or agoraphobia would not live long on Coruscant, I thought as I learned that the two Sullustans had only just met this evening. That the pair of Sullustans were already headed to the Sullustan senator's conapt when they had only just met wasn't surprising, though, because Sullustans were famous from one spiral arm to the other for their quick connect-and-disconnects. In fact, it was often remarked that Sullustans rarely got lost and could always find there way to the nearest bedroom.

All in all, between the kissing session and the flattery, I was relieved when the turbolift finally halted after what felt like an eternity at level four-hundred-and-forty-seven, I emitted a mental cheer as the Sullustan couple departed. As the turbolift doors sealed shut after the Sullustans, Anakin mumbled, "Don't go so soon― I was about to poison the quintberry tea." When the turbolift re-started its ascent, he added, "Only fifty more stories left."

Apparently, this notion disconcerted him, for he commenced the fruitless endeavor of smoothing wrinkles out of already straightened segments of his robes with his right hand, while his left hand fiddled anxiously with his Padawan braid.

"You seem a little on edge," I stated the obvious in an attempt to distract him from ruminating upon a certain beautiful senator from Naboo.

"Not at all," lied Anakin, at his most unconvincing. Maybe a little on edge was an understatement, though. He was clearly very nervous about coming into contact with Senator Amidala again, and his efforts to conceal it were not very successful. He was practically shaking with nerves.

"I haven't seen you this nervous since you fell into that nest of gundarks," I teased him, striving to get him to loosen up.

"You fell into that nightmare, Master, and I rescued you," he corrected me. "Remember?"

"Oh, you're right." Now that he mentioned it, I did recollect that it had been me who had toppled into the nest of gundarks on our mission to Typha-Dor, and him who had saved me. That had been a difficult mission, in which Anakin had been imprisoned in a war camp where the evil scientist Jenna Zan Arbor had tested her medicines on those locked there, and I had to rescue him from there. Still, as challenging as that mission had been, it had its bonuses. After all, it had been the impetus that prompted Anakin to burst out to me that he didn't want to be the Chosen One because the Force was so strong in him that it made him feel so much, and he didn't wish to have such powerful emotions. In effect, it had compelled him to confide his deepest feelings to me, and that had ushered in a new phase of our relationship.

Now that Anakin was almost twenty, we were once again entering another phase of our relationship. I knew that he thought that he was ready to become a Jedi Knight, but I disagreed. While he was undeniably powerful enough to be one, he hadn't mastered the art of self-control and the element of subtlety that would permit him to determine when it was appropriate to employ his incredible gifts yet, which meant that he still had much to learn from me.

Our differing perspectives on this matter had resulted in a tension between us these last few months, but that didn't concern me, even though at times I could tell that it upset my apprentice. Every Master-Padawan relationship had bumps in it, because in order for there to be times of coming together, there must of necessity be times of separation. These periods of separation did not mean that the core of the relationship was threatened. I knew this from experience, since Qui-Gon and I had endured similar phases, and in the end, it hadn't mattered. In the end, it had only been the bond between us that had amounted to anything. I sensed that it would be the same thing with Anakin and me in the long run.

Glancing at the tall adolescent beside me and noticing that the impact of my tiny distraction were already starting to wear off my Padawan, I told him, "You're sweating. Take a deep breath. Relax."

"I haven't seen her in ten years," Anakin murmured by way of response, although his words bore little relation to my statement.

"Anakin, relax," I reiterated. "She's not the Queen anymore."

As I established as much, the turbolift stopped again, and the doors opened. Striding out of the turbolift, I heard my Padawan mutter behind me as he followed, "That's not why I'm nervous."

All too aware of the veracity of this assertion, I acted as though I didn't hear it as we continued down the corridor, and a door on the right side of the hallway slid open quietly on well-oiled hinges. Pivoting to face the noise of the opening door, Anakin and I noticed that an elegantly attired Gungan, garbed in fine septsilk crimson and obsidian robes, walked into the hall opposite us.

I regarded him for a moment, wondering why he looked so familiar. Then, I recalled that he was Jar Jar Binks. If I hadn't been able to reach that conclusion for myself, I would have been able to do so when the Gungan diplomat threw all sense of reserve and propriety to the winds and launched himself at me.

"Obi-One, Obi-One! Mesa so happy to be seein yousa again!" pronounced Jar Jar excitedly, as he wrapped his arms about me in a wild embrace.

Hoping that the Gungan would not strangle me by mistake, I patted him on the back with all the heartiness I could manage in my current oxygen-deprived condition and pleaded with my ribs not to shatter under the pressure of the Gungan's squeeze. "It's good to see you too, Jar Jar," I choked out.

Something in my tone must have caused him to recognize that he was asphyxiating me, for he released me as suddenly as he had snatched me up. Once he had made an obvious effort to control himself, an endeavor that was at best moderately successful, he made a stab at dignity as he gestured at Anakin and observed, "And this, mesa guessen, issen yousa apprentice."

How exactly Jar Jar had been capable of saying the word "apprentice" correctly when he had trouble saying "is" correctly was one of the many unsolvable enigmas of the universe, I thought as Jar Jar eyed Anakin curiously, waiting for an introduction. Then, enlightenment washed over the Gungan's features as he realized that this lanky teenage boy before him was the pubescent nine-year-old he had met a decade earlier when we had all worked to liberate Naboo. After the shock at how much Anakin had grown over the years, delight mounted on Jar Jar's face as he shrieked and threw his slender arms around Anakin, engulfing the young man in an embrace that was every bit as tight as the one I had suffered.

"Nooo! Annie? Little bitty Annie!" he exclaimed, as my apprentice allowed himself to be pulled into a crushing hug, wearing an embarrassed smile. "Yousa so biggen. Mesa no believen!"

Personally, I could sympathize with his alarm at my Padawan's astonishing physical development. After all, there were times when I could have sworn that he was taller one day than he had been the previous evening, although that was foolish, of course, because nobody shot up several inches in one night. Still, Anakin's growth could sometimes be nothing short of amazing.

"Hi, Jar Jar," Anakin panted once Jar Jar had released him after a good deal more squealing.

At this point, Jar Jar seemed to remember that he was in fact a senatorial aide, for he recovered some semblance of composure as he stated in a more subdued and somber fashion, "Shesa expecting yousa."

As he educated us of this fact, Jar Jar made a somewhat clumsy attempt to bow us into Senator Amidala's quarters. Upon entering the chambers of the Naboo senator, I noted that they were tastefully decorated, with cushiony chairs and a divan set in a circular pattern in the center of the living room, and few well-placed paintings lining the walls.

One of the Senator's handmaidens and the captain of her security, Captain Typho, were standing beside the divan. However, it was to Senator Amidala that my gaze was drawn to, because there was something so commanding about her in her cerulean veda robes that had clearly been tailored to accentuate her shapely frame. If anything, she had become more charismatic in our years apart, and it was plain from Anakin's sigh that he had spotted as much.

"Lookie, lookie," screeched Jar Jar as the three of us joined the congregation in the parlor. This was hardly the announcement I would have preferred, but I supposed that I couldn't expect much better from the childlike creature. Asking him to contain his excitement was as silly as begging a storm cloud not to rain. "Desa Jedi arriven."

"It's a pleasure to see you again, My Lady," I greeted the Senator, striding forward so that I could stand before her as she moved to meet Anakin, who was still trailing behind me in a daze, and me. Since she was far from the worst governmental figure I had encountered in my years as a Jedi, my tone was more sincere than it would have been with almost any other politician. That didn't mean that I was happy to see her, though, not really. It merely meant that I wasn't depressed at having to make contact with her once more.

"It has been far too long, Master Kenobi." Senator Amidala smiled as she took my hand, playing her role of cordial politician with impeccable brilliance. One would almost think that she was pleased to see me, although she hadn't desired Jedi protection. It was truly an admirable performance, and the theater had lost a wonderful actor in her. "I'm so glad that our paths have crossed again." Here, she paused, and a shadow crossed over her bright face for the first time. "But I must warn you that I think your presence here is unnecessary."

Wow. Although the words hadn't been rude, they had certainly been blunt. Still, I appreciated the straightforwardness, because it meant that we could stop our stupid game of grins and progress to the heart of the matter. We would squander less time, and we wouldn't have to constantly be on our guard as we both struggled to devise a way to achieve what we wanted without giving our feelings away. Now we could be honest with each other, and the matter could be resolved all the quicker. I began to see why her people had wanted her to remain for another term as Queen, because, while she was far from perfect, she was light-years better than the average politician, which really wasn't saying much when I considered the issue.

"I am sure that the members of the Jedi Council have their reasons," I informed her steadily.

Senator Amidala responded with a resigned nod, and then, apparently eager to change the subject, she glanced around and her eyes lit upon Anakin. Taking a step to the side so that she was directly in front of Anakin, she eyed him incredulously for a moment and then inquired hesitantly, "Annie?"

"Annie," she resumed, beaming now, as she decided that this towering youth really was Anakin Skywalker without waiting for any confirmation on the young man's part, which was probably a good thing, because my Padawan seemed incapable of speech at the moment as her presence had left him temporarily tongueless. "My goodness, you've grown!"

While she made this observation, she cast her head down and then tilted it upward again, emphasizing how much taller he was than her, but this did not bolster Anakin's confidence, it seemed. He also appeared to miss the smile she fixed on him, which explained why he answered awkwardly, as though he had to battle to get each syllable to emerge from reluctant lips, "So have you."

I barely restrained myself from bashing my hand to my forehead in dismay. Where had my Padawan left his brain? It was obvious that the Senator hadn't grown, if he was gazing down at her, when it had been the other way around when they had seen each other last, and hinting at people's shortness wasn't regarded as a polite practice in civilized society.

Perhaps Anakin realized that he had erred, since he bumbled on in a pathetic attempt to modify the situation after his blunder, "You've grown more beautiful, I mean." At this juncture, he cleared his throat, straightened his spine, and tried to sound teasing. "And mush shorter, for a Senator, I mean."

Was that even intended to make sense? I wondered as I shot him a disapproving look. Honestly, when would he learn to control his tongue. He should have just left it at "grown more beautiful, I mean." While that would have come dangerously close to flirtation, it would have been able to be passed over as a typical meaningless compliment issued regularly in refined conversation. Now his remark had gone beyond salvaging just because he didn't know when to leave well enough alone. At least I didn't have to worry about him engaging in a romantic relationship with the Senator if he was going to behave like such an idiot around her.

"Oh, Annie, you'll always be that little boy I knew on Tatooine." Luckily, Senator Amidala elected to glide over his faux pas with a brief peal of laughter. However, Anakin didn't share my relief, if the way he slouched after she referenced his being a little boy was any indicator. Obviously, he would prefer if she perceived him as a man rather than a lad. Well, he would have to learn how to act like one first, which involved mastering the skill of forming a relatively coherent sentence.

"Our presence will be invisible, My Lady, I assure you," I promised her, as I sent my apprentice a significant glance. He would not bother her with his attentions because we didn't need to make her any more hostile to our aid than she already was.

"I'm very glad that you're here, Master Kenobi," interjected Captain Typho, who was plainly as blunt as his uncle Panaka. "The situation is more dangerous than the Senator will admit."

"I don't need any more security," retorted Senator Amidala. She addressed Typho initially, but riveted her eyes on me as she elaborated, "I need answers. I want to know who is trying to kill me."

"We're here to protect you, Senator, not to start an investigation," I reminded her firmly. Although I had been making a list of suspects on the journey here and had hoped to narrow it down so that I would better be able to defend her, I wasn't going to vow to her that I would find the one behind the attempts on her life. After all, a Jedi's word was sacred, and I had only been assigned to protect her from any future attempts to kill her. Therefore, once the Council deemed it no longer necessary for Anakin and me to guard her, we would be relieved of that duty, whether or not the being who had orchestrated the assassination attempts was caught.

"We'll find out who's trying to kill you, Padme, I promise you," Anakin contradicted me as soon as the last words emerged from my mouth. It couldn't have been clearer that he would have pledged to do anything she asked of him, and such devotion to one individual in a Jedi was prohibited.

"We are not going to exceed our mandate, my young Padawan learner," I ruled sharply, trying to remind him of his obligation to the Jedi Order, which only required that he protect the Senator, not swear to uncover the one who had arranged to have her murdered.

"I meant in the interest of protecting her, Master, of course," he improvised, although he had meant no such thing, because if he had, he would not have made his impulsive oath in the first place.

"We're not going through this exercise again, Anakin." I shook my head. "You will pay attention to my lead."

"Why?" Anakin demanded.

"What?" Completely taken aback, I gawked at him, convinced I had misheard. When I was a Padawan, I would never have dreamed of posing such a question to my Master. Sure, I might have questioned his decisions at times, but I never would have questioned his right to make them so explicitly or so publicly. I had never imagined that Anakin would do so either. Even he had to understand that a Padawan wouldn't learn anything if he didn't follow his Master's lead. That was something it didn't take a genius to figure out.

"Why else do you think that we were assigned to her if not to find her killer?" Anakin backpedaled, recognizing that he was straying into a nexu's den that he didn't want to enter after all. This was a judicious choice because I couldn't be positive that my astonishment wouldn't turn to anger in record time if he stuck by his initial query. "Protection is a job for local security, not for Jedi. It's overkill, Master, and so an investigation is implied in our mandate."

"We will do as the Council has instructed," I countered, which didn't involve making promises we couldn't keep to senators or transforming the main objective of a mission to protect a senator into a quest to find the one who arranged for an assassination attempt on the aforementioned senator. I was willing to concede that we had the right to behave as we deemed necessary to accomplish our goal of defending Senator Amidala, but we were not going to devise our own missions, and that was the end of the matter. "And you will learn your place, young one."

Stung by my rebuke, Anakin lowered his eyes, and I knew why. Since he was in such a rush to grow up, he resented any reference to his youth.

"Perhaps with merely your presence about me, the mysteries surrounding this threat will be revealed," offered Senator Amidala, and I debated whether she had intended to be sarcastic or if I was merely being paranoid as a result of dealing with Anakin's impertinence. Before I could reach a satisfactory conclusion to this riddle, she added, "Now, if you will excuse me, I will retire."

Without waiting for an answer, she exited the room with her handmaidens in tow, leaving me alone with my insolent apprentice, Jar Jar, and Captain Typho. Silence filled the chamber for a moment, and, unable to tolerate the tension any longer, I walked around the room and into the adjoining chambers, taking a quick inventory of the place, so that I would be better prepared to defend the Senator in her luxurious conapt, which was my assignment, after all.

As I returned to the parlor after finishing this endeavor, I overheard Anakin and Jar Jar conversing as I approached them.

"Shesa happy," the Gungan was reassuring my troubled Padawan, and it couldn't be plainer that Anakin had been complaining to Jar Jar that Senator Amidala had not seemed delighted enough by his arrival. "Happier than mesa seein' her in a longo time."

Anakin opened his mouth to reply, but I cut in as I joined the two of them, "You're focusing on the negative again, Anakin. Be mindful of your thoughts. She was pleased to see us. Now, let's check the security here. We have much to do."

"Yes, Master." Anakin bobbed his head in compliance, but I had the distinct sense that he had not dismissed what dwelt in his mind or his heart, and that would bring more troubles upon us in the future.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed. I really appreciate it and hope you'll enjoy this chapter as well. Sorry if it took me a little while to update, but you can blame it on my teachers merciless teachers. (Okay, Anakin moment officially over.)

This chapter is a little short, but it seemed like a decent endpoint, so I left it here. A little update is better than none.

AnneKenobi21― For some reason, the author search function here didn't bring up your username so I couldn't PM you as I normally do to respond to anonymous reviews, so I'll just respond to you here. I hope you don't mind. Now, to actually address what you said. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and review my work. I'm happy to hear that you loved the first chapter, and that you like my portrayal of Obi-Wan, who is one of my favorite Star Wars characters, as you might have been able to surmise. To be honest, Anakin drives me up the wall in Episode II, as well, where he is much too prone to temper tantrums for my taste. I guess Obi-Wan feels obligated to keep training Anakin no matter how annoying the teenager gets because he swore to Qui-Gon that he would:) And I guess he also puts up with it because he is patient Obi-Wan Kenobi, lol. (He's loads more patient than my instructors who scream at you if you say "y" for "e" in Espanol, even though ninety-nine times out of a hundred, you're supposed to say "y" for "and" not "e." All right. Now the Anakin moment is _really_ over.)

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Sweet Dreams

An hour later, after I had inspected every chamber in Senator Amidala's massive conapt suite, I returned to the living room outside of Senator Amidala's bedroom. Although Captain Typho, who seemed to be as competent as his gruff uncle, had situated the soldiers at his disposal expertly, overseeing as fine a defensive perimeter as I had encountered throughout my years as a Jedi, I derived little comfort from this fact.

After all, any defense can be breached by a clever and resolute foe, and I had no doubt that the adversary we were currently confronting was lacking in either of these two traits. I had received a detailed report about the attack on the Naboo cruiser from Typho, and, considering the numerous precautions that had been taken to protect the vessel― everything from broadcasting fictitious entry lanes to the appointed landing pad to the many shielding starfighters, including the three that had directly accompanied the ship and those, both Naboo and Republic, covering every conceivable attack lane― that those who had tried to assassinate Senator Amidala should not be underestimated. Obviously, they were skilled and well-connected, which rendered them doubly perilous.

As I entered the parlor, I saw Anakin, who had been meditating on the divan, stiffen and finger his lightsaber hilt. Then, a fraction of a second later, his hand flew away from his weapon as he realized that the intruder he felt was me. Clearly, I wasn't the only one who was wary of these assassins, I observed mentally, approving of my Padawan's quick reflexes. In many ways, he was far more in sync with the currents of the Force than I had been at the same age, but I supposed that was only to be expected from the Chosen One with his skytower high midi-chlorian count.

"Captain Typho has more than enough men downstairs," I announced as Anakin opened his eyes to regard me inquiringly. In fact, Typho had enough men to defend a small planet stationed downstairs. "No assassin will try that way. Any activity up here?"

Since Anakin hadn't contacted me and I hadn't felt a disturbance in the Force, I surmised that there hadn't been, but it never hurt to be certain since I was aware of what horrible things could occur when one made assumptions.

"Quiet as a tomb," Anakin updated me, and I hoped that he was referring to one without any grave robbers in it. However, I had no opportunity to establish as much aloud because my apprentice shuddered as he absorbed the full impact of his own words, and he mumbled, "I don't like just waiting here for something to happen."

I understood how frustrating it could be to sit out and wait for something to happen, so I nodded my comprehension and removed a portable viewscreen from my supply kit. This particular viewscreen had been set up to show me what was happening to Senator Amidala in her bedroom, but when I glanced down at it, I saw only the door area and R2-D2 stationed by the wall like a sentry.

What was going on? Had something happened to the Senator? Was she injured, or worse still, dead? Why had both Anakin and I failed to sense a threat if either of these two scenarios had occurred? Was this yet another manifestation of the gathering strength of the Dark Side that everyone in the Temple from esteemed Council members like Yoda and Mace Windu to initiates just figuring out how to ignite their lightsabers without impaling themselves upon their own weapons could sense with varying degrees of intensity depending upon their personal mastery of the ways of the Force?

"Padme― Senator Amidala― covered the cam," my Padawan explained. Apparently, my expression had asked my question long before I had recovered enough to form a coherent inquiry. As he continued, the young man addressed his boots more than he did me. "I don't think she liked me watching her."

Although I could sympathize with her not desiring to be stared at by an adolescent male who was sexually attracted to her while she was in her nightclothes, I thought that she had to hire a more competent aide to sort out her priorities better. Her security was of paramount importance, and she couldn't afford for it to be compromised merely because Anakin's eyes on her discomfited her. After all, it was preferable to be alive and awkward rather than dead and comfortable, and it didn't require borrowing Master Yoda's brains to arrive at such an unassailable conclusion.

"What is she thinking?" I scowled as such sentiments whirled around inside me like a tornado. A second later, I wondered why I had bothered to ask such a thing. Obviously, she hadn't been thinking, but that shouldn't have been shocking. After all, most politicians never discovered where the on switch for their brain was located, so why should Amidala be any different from her peers? I really had to learn not to expect any trace of rationality from those who squandered their lives on politics.

"She programmed Artoo to warn us if there is an intruder," Anakin informed me placidly, as though this dealt with all the complications that could result from the Senator covering the camera.

"It is not an intruder that I'm worried about," I dismissed Anakin's comment. Rather, it wasn't merely an intruder that I was concerned about. "There are many ways to kill a Senator." Each of them more unpleasant than the next, might I add.

As I stated as much, I focused a serious glance upon him so that he would see that I meant that the assassin we faced was undeniably clever enough to be aware of and pursue these more subtle methods of murdering powerful political figures. However, Anakin paid this argument no mind as he persisted stubbornly, "I know, but we also want to catch this assassin, don't we, Master?"

"You're using her as bait?" I demanded incredulously, my eyes widening in disbelief. I was appalled that he would take such a step without attaining my consent beforehand. If he answered affirmatively, I couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't assassinate him.

"It was her idea." Anakin's defensive tone illustrated quite eloquently that he endorsed Senator Amidala's ploy, if, in fact, he hadn't been the genius who had devised this brilliant scheme. "Don't worry. No harm will come to her. I can sense everything going on in that room. Trust me."

"It's too risky," I declared, shaking my head in negation. "Besides, your senses aren't that attuned, my young apprentice." Especially not when he was obviously exhausted. Fatigue banished logic and instincts faster than alcohol did and that was saying something.

At my remark, a flash of ire flickered across my Padawan's features like lightning dancing across the sky during a monsoon on Drongar. The anger appeared and disappeared so swiftly that anyone else might not have detected it, or, if they had discerned it, they would probably have convinced themselves that their imagination had deigned to play a cruel prank on them. However, I knew Anakin's every look and could only hope that, instead of burying his wrath, he had absorbed it and then released it as a Jedi should.

Once the anger had departed his face, Anakin asked suggestively, "And yours are?"

I studied my Padawan pensively for a moment. He should not have pursued this strategy without obtaining my consent first, especially when I had made it plain that protecting the Senator was more crucial than tracking down the assassin, and I would be within my rights to halt this insanity now.

Then again, he was learning to be a Jedi Knight, and part of that educational process entailed being allowed to test one's instincts, and it was better that he do so now in a controlled environment, where I was around to contain the damage if necessary. I could recall how near the end of my apprenticeship I had occasionally made a decision and then commed my Master, instead of the other way around. Most of the time, Qui-Gon had granted me the freedom to act on my instincts. As a Padawan, I had always appreciated these displays of faith in me and my capabilities, and I wanted to provide Anakin with the same gift. After all, in the final assessment, I did trust him even if he was oftentimes too rash for my tastes. Something about my apprentice demanded faith.

"Possibly," I responded vaguely at last. When I made no move to cease this latest bit of impulsive lunacy, Anakin half-grinned in triumph, his face adopting a satisfied expression that reminded me more of the sunny nine-year-old that I had first taken as my Padawan, not the moody, talented, and headstrong youth before me that was in the throes of the agonizing transformation from boy to man.

The half-moon smile that was an Anakin Skywalker trademark remained for a few seconds and then it waned again, eclipsed by exhaustion. Seeing the dark smudges under Anakin's eyes that were highlighted by the pallor of his features in the dim illumination emitted by the glowlights that were set at the lowest level, concern washed over me.

He really must not be sleeping at all, I recognized. That was why I had noticed a sharp increase in the time he spent meditating― he was replacing slumber with it. This was hardly a prudent regime to adopt on a permanent basis, because while meditation provided rest, clarity, and an energy boost more potent than a protein bar, it did not work the same renewing miracles that sleep did, since it was designed to function as a rapid source of replenishment on missions and a means of calming one's mind at any time. In short, it wasn't intended as a substitute for slumber. The only reason a body would replace mediation for sleep on a regular basis was because they were confronting nightmares. Only then would a person sacrifice the rejuvenating benefits of sleep in exchange for the absence of tormenting images and emotions.

"You look tired," I stated the truth that would have been glaringly apparent to any Jedi with two brain cells to rub together. By this, I hoped to encourage Anakin to confide in me and detail what it was about his dreams that was plaguing him so.

"I don't sleep well anymore." Anakin shrugged dispiritedly, not disagreeing with my analysis, but not elaborating upon it either. Clearly, he didn't wish to discuss this matter. Whenever he was reluctant to converse about a given issue, he would answer every comment with unhelpful scraps of data that could no more be constituted as news than a moldy crust of bread could be termed as a banquet.

"Because of your mother?" I prodded gently, trying to get him to reveal more to me, which was why I placed such an essentially futile inquiry. Of course Anakin's nightmares involved his mom. All of them did, just as my nightmares invariably consisted of some surreal corruption of the fateful lightsaber duel on Naboo where my Master had met his demise at the hands of a bestial Sith Lord. Both Anakin and I had nightmares about what we deemed as failing our parents, and both of us desperately wanted to ensure that we wouldn't screw up again. That was the extent of our similarities, but it was enough. Sometimes I even imagined that it was more than enough.

"I don't know why I keep dreaming about her," Anakin confessed, averting his eyes. I decided against voicing my theory that it merely symbolically reflected through its latent content his guilt about leaving her and his desire not to "fail" again. The guilt he felt about abandoning her might have prompted a relapse of this nightmare because he and I were currently alienated.

After all, dream interpretation was a mental quagmire to venture into, because just about every psychologist who fancied himself an expert in his field had his own pet theory about the nature of them and how they ought to be analyzed. Some authorities contended that dreams functioned as a safety valve for unconscious desires, and, therefore, they often revealed deep secrets of the unconscious mind that were unknown or unacknowledged by the conscious mind. On the other hand, some scholars favored an activation-synthesis theory in which pans in the brain generated bursts of energy, activating the forebrain and prompting the dreamer to attempt to make sense of the stimulation by devising the plotline of the dream. Still others maintained that when we sleet, we were forcing our constantly active brains to only access stored memories because we largely chopped ourselves off from the external world.

Besides from the challenge of interpreting the dream itself, there was the problem that Anakin didn't wish to discuss his nightmares, if the way he had gazed elsewhere earlier was any indicator, and so probably wouldn't listen to my theory, anyway.

"Dreams pass in time," I replied finally, since they did, although most of the time nightmares were prone to being resurrected at a later date, like some disease that always lay dormant in an individual's immune system after the initial contraction of the ailment. I had assumed that this would be the clincher of an exchange that my Padawan had not wished to start in the first place, but Anakin had another idea, as usual.

"I'd rather dream of Padme," he smiled slyly, taunting me with his blatant violation of an integral tenet of the Jedi Code. After all, even the less bright Jedi who had to be watered twice a week had memorized the clause that specifically prohibited all attachments, especially romantic ones. Many outsiders regarded this chaste practice as either a prudish one that resulted from being too disconnected from society as a whole, or else as some form of religious sacrifice to the Force. However, neither of these assessments were accurate. Jedi forbade attachment not only because it led to possession, but because it created split loyalties, something that only ever caused heartbreak. The split loyalties aspect was doubly true of romantic entanglements. That is, a permanent romantic relationship was simply such a massive commitment of time and energy that one could not possibly fulfill one's obligations to both one's partner and the Force. It was better to accomplish one task well then to do a substandard job on two. Therefore, a choice ultimately must be made, and a Jedi always surrendered attachment for the sake of the Force. "Just being around her again is…intoxicating."

"Be mindful of your thoughts, Anakin," I cautioned sternly before he could provide further insight into the specifics of this desired dream. Honestly, was he determined to humiliate us both? I mean, I could not pursue a policy of don't-ask-don't-tell if he refused to meet me halfway by not spilling out his erotic fantasies, which I didn't want to hear about. "They betray you. You've made a commitment to the Jedi Order― a commitment not easily broken."

I considered expounding further upon this notion, but decided against it when I saw the resigned expression Anakin typically wore when he was bored by my instructions etched on his features. Reminding myself that we could discuss this issue further should Anakin's relationship with Senator Amidala ever progress beyond wistful daydreams before the universe contracted upon us all again, I changed the topic slightly by emitting a derisive snort as I nodded toward Senator Amidala's sleeping quarters. "Don't forget that she's a politician and they're not to be trusted." At least not as far as one could throw them in a pelting rainstorm, at any rate.

"She's not like the others in the Senate, Master," Anakin protested vehemently, once again chivalrously defending the honor of a woman whom he hadn't had any contact with in a decade and who probably had ridded herself of the debilitating impact of integrity in that timeframe.

"It's been my experience that senators focus only on pleasing those who fund their campaigns, and they are more than willing to forget the niceties of democracy to get those funds," I informed him tartly.

"Not another lecture, Master," groaned my apprentice, his dull manner implying that he was seriously considering cutting himself so that he could watch a scab form instead of listening to me. Possibly striving for a more intellectual, and thus more credible tone, he went on, "Besides, you're generalizing. I know that Padme―"

"Senator Amidala," I corrected, because I wasn't going to permit either of us to lapse into the familiarity of a first name basis with her.

"Isn't like that," concluded my Padawan, paying no mind to my comment as was his habit. "And the Chancellor doesn't seem to be corrupt."

When I heard this, I noted inwardly that he still had much to learn if he had not learned that appearances were often as far removed from reality as the feral droids in the Works were from the gentry. Indeed, it was the politicians that didn't seem to be corrupt that were the most dangerous. Nearly all politicians engaged in the same vices, and those who had a reputation for virtue merely had the distinction of not being caught in wrongdoing yet. Since they had evaded being caught in immoral behavior, that meant that they were more cunning than their peers, which meant they should be watched more vigilantly if anything. Good people didn't go into politics― they joined soup kitchens and volunteered in homeless shelters and hospitals.

That being established, the trust and respect I had for Supreme Chancellor could fit in a thimble without being in any true danger of overflowing. When sentients were around him, their thoughts and feelings were no longer their own, and it was prudent to keep an eye on such charismatic organisms. Besides, he had an understated voice that instilled doubt in the minds of those who heard it, and people who rattled foundations instead of building or solidifying them should not be depended upon in an earthquake like the one that was currently rocking the political realm as a result of the Separatist movement.

Yet, Anakin was easily miffed if I came too close to insulting the man who had become the indulgent uncle he could turn to for praise when he felt that I was too hard upon him. I was grateful for his kindness to Anakin because I knew that I sometimes could be heavy-handed, but I didn't trust his charity. In politics, every moment was an investment and every gift had a high price. I didn't look forward to the day when Palpatine would demand a return favor from Anakin, his protégé.

Keeping all this in mind, I chose to compromise by portraying Palpatine as no better and no worse than the rest of the greedy scalawags that clogged the Senate, preventing anything truly useful from being achieved therein.

"Palpatine's a politician," I asserted in the end. Adding a more objective piece of data, I established, "I've observed that he is very clever about following the passions and the prejudices of the senators."

"I think he is a good man," Anakin insisted. "My instincts are very positive about…"

Suddenly, he trailed off, his eyes widening as we both felt a menacing wave wash over us in the Force, originating from the Senator's bedroom. Another assassination attempt on Senator Amidala was underway!

"I can sense it, too," I said in response to my apprentice's quick, questioning glance in my direction. Then, the pair of us rocketed into motion, charging across the parlor and into Senator Amidala's sleeping quarters.

As we dashed into the bedchamber, I wished that we had sensed this peril sooner, because several poisonous kouhuns were already crawling slowly and deliberately toward the still-sleeping Senator's exposed neck and face, their mandibles clacking with excitement at the feast they were about to enjoy.

"Weoo!" R2-D2 wailed, belatedly recognizing the threat. The droid's earsplitting shriek naturally awakened Senator Amidala, whose eyes expanded as she noticed the grave danger she was in.

Before she could even scream, however, Anakin's azure lightsaber danced across the covers and bisected the lethal creatures.

I'll wager that she's grateful for our assistance now, I had time to remark wryly to myself before a metallic glint caught my eye. An assassin droid was hovering outside the window, its appendage retracting rapidly as it prepared to soar intraceably off into the shrouding night.

Determined not to let that occur, I acted on pure instinct and rushed across the chamber toward the window. I leapt straight into the blinds, which I carried with me as I sailed through the window, shattering the glass. Drawing on the Force, I extended my jump so that I could grab onto the retreating assassin droid.

With my added weight upon it, the floating automaton sank considerably, whizzing past at least five levels, and for a moment I feared that it would slip into a free-fall, causing both of us to meet unpleasant and unceremonious demises when we smashed into the permacreate surface of Corusanct so many kilometers beneath us.

Fortunately, however, my far was unfounded as so many are, and the droid, which must have been well-programmed, compensated for the burden I represented and stabilized almost instantaneously. Then, it flew off, hundreds of levels in the air, with me hanging onto it for dear life and hoping that it wouldn't be a very long journey to the assassin's lair.


	4. Chapter 4

The Chase is on

This is star systems away from being the best idea that ever crossed my mind or lack thereof, not that any of my ideas were particularly ingenious, I observed as the assassin droid, whose defensive mechanisms must have been as sophisticated as its stabilizing one, sent a barrage of electrical shocks arcing over its metallic surface, stinging my unfortunate hands. Since I valued my life, as unspectacular as it oftentimes was, I had no alternative but to cling grimly to the automation, gritting my teeth through the ripples of agony jogging through my palms and fingers.

As the droid sped me through the bustling traffic lanes of Coruscant, I noted dimly that this sight, which surely ought to have been a weird spectacle to those who were privileged enough to be outsiders, did not garner nearly as many curious stares as I would have anticipated. Then again, I was on Coruscant, I reminded myself, where one would basically have to be on fire to warrant even a second glance from a majority of the busy, cosmopolitan civilians.

Even though I was aware that it was nothing short of a display of extreme folly, I found myself gazing down as I journeyed along, struggling to endure the electrical assaults of the assassin droid. When I glanced down, I glimpsed the teeming ecumenopolis levels stretching seemingly into infinity beneath my feet, and I swiftly raised my eyes again.

Yet, the damage had already been accomplished. Now I couldn't pretend that I was doing anything less perilous than whizzing kilometers above the planet's surface, clutching onto a device that was as devoted to dislodging me as I was to remaining affixed upon it. I could no longer delude myself into believing that if I relinquished my grip, I would emerge from the experience in any better shape than an overripe muja fruit that had been imprudently utilized as a punching bag on which to practice kata moves upon. When I smashed into the permacrete surface of the planet, I would probably go splat like an overripe muja fruit, as well.

Speaking of objects going splat, that had almost happened to me, for another shock had nearly sent me plummeting to the ground so far, far below. Blast it, either the voltage of the shocks was increasing or my endurance was decreasing.

Where in all the neighboring galaxies was my Padawan when I needed him? If he was still in Senator Amidala's sleeping quarters, I would murder him, assuming, of course, that I survived this current ordeal.

Ouch, burn it. The voltage must have risen or my endurance must have diminished again. That settled it, then. There had to be a way of circumventing this agony besides releasing my grip upon the droid. Yes, that was it, I determined as enlightenment struck me. I fumbled with the droid with my right hand, discovered what felt like a power wire, and yanked it out of the machine without pausing to consider the potential ramifications of my impulsive behavior. Just as I had done when I had leaped out of the window in Senator Amidala's suite. Obviously, Anakin's impetuousness was rubbing off on me, and that was not a good thing…

At first, my scheme appeared to have been effective since the electrical shocks ceased bombarding me. However, the flaw in my plan was revealed a nanosecond later when it became clear that I had severed off the power supply that controlled the anti-gravity mechanism and kept the automation aloft.

Of course there had to be a catch. One of the few certainties of this particular universe was that there was always a catch to everything, I griped inwardly as the droid and I descended, falling through the air like stones. The lights of several stories flashed past us as we dropped with a velocity I didn't even want to contemplate.

"Not good, not good," I shouted into the wind whacking my face as I fell, my words demonstrating that I was indeed the master of understatement if nothing else. Frantically, I battled to reconnect the wires before I ended up contributing to the general good of society by becoming an invaluable piece of the pavement.

It took much more time than I would have liked, but I finally managed to turn the assassin droid on again, and off it soared with me hanging desperately upon it. Unluckily, the device didn't waste a second before it recommenced the series of electrical shocks that it had generously been treating me to previously.

Still, it was batter to have a chance of not ramming into the permacrete surface of Coruscant than to have none, which is what would have happened if I'd kept the power off to halt the onslaught of electrical shocks. That didn't prevent me from wishing that I could separate the mechanism that controlled the droid's flight from those that governed its defensive system, though. If Anakin were here, he could have achieved such a feat in a heartbeat, but he wasn't here, much to my aggravation.

My annoyance with my apprentice was rapidly transfigured into panic when the droid elected to upgrade its defensive maneuvers and twisted so that it collided with the durasteel side of a towering edifice. The impact knocked all the oxygen out of my lungs and I nearly let go of the droid reflexively. However, I recalled my surroundings in the last possible millisecond and maintained my hold upon the machine, although I had to admit that it was notably less firm than it was before. I was losing the strength to continue this. If Anakin didn't rescue me or the droid didn't reach the assassin's lair soon, then…

This soothing syllogism was left only halfway finished when the inconveniently well-programmed assassin droid veered back into the thronging Coruscanti traffic lane, diving behind a speeder and flying along just above the vehicle's exhaust engine.

Mumbling something― I wasn't even positive what exactly myself and I was the one whose lips the words had departed from― I contorted myself into an odds shape in a stunt that I would never able to duplicate in a million years, even if my life depended upon it again.

I had only just recovered from this terrifying experience that would hopefully only be a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence when the droid again chose to switch to another track, this time swooping in low over the roof of one close by structure.

Luckily, if anything about this horrid affair could be constituted as being lucky, it was a flat rooftop. This allowed me to tuck my legs up so that I could skim across the roof along with the inventive automation that was challenging me so. After darting across the rooftop, it dropped into an alcove in the side of the edifice.

Peering into the niche as I approached by way of droid, I spotted a battered yellow airspeeder that plainly had seen better years or decades parked behind a muffled figure in a brown form-fitting unisuit waiting inside the recess, apparently awaiting the return of the droid dispatched to eliminate Senator Amidala.

When the being saw me clinging to the approaching automation, he whipped out a laser rifle. "I have a bad feeling about this," I muttered, as the sentient centered his weapon upon me, and the Force screamed out a warning. I thought that it wasn't of much use as an alarm system if it was only beginning to blare now when I had been in mortal danger ever since I had so stupidly vaulted out of the window.

Less than a moment later, explosions burst all around me. If I could just use my lightsaber…but I couldn't withdraw it without relinquishing my hold upon the droid with one hand, and the instant I did that, it would find a way to throw me off. All I could do in this compromising situation was hope that the assassin was cursed with a dreadful aim.

It transpired that the assassin didn't have a lame aim. Great, I complained in my head, as I twisted myself in several different directions at once to dodge the maelstrom of bullets. This is just what I needed to top off this marvelous night.

However, the splendors of this evening had not concluded yet, for barely a minute later, the droid detonated when a blaster bolt hit it, and I was slipping by ten levels, then twenty, and then thirty of them.

It took me half a moment to realize that I was, indeed, plunging through the Coruscanti atmosphere at a speed that would have gotten a ship pulled over by the sector police for a traffic safety violation. Worse still, there was nothing in my Jedi repertoire to save me in this case, and there were no handholds in sight― no platforms and no awnings of thick and padded material for me to grab or land upon. Nothing. Just another four hundred and something levels to the ground. Wonderful.

Hopefully the horror that would pierce through my heart like a stunpike when the permacrete surface of Coruscant actually came into view would kill me before the impact did, I thought as I sought to find my calm center by calling upon my connection with the Force so that I could accept this unwelcome and embarrassing demise.

I had made scant progress in this endeavor when a speeder swooped beside me like the predatory hawk-bats that nested in the abandoned shops and residences on this world. Acting on the primitive instinct to survive at all costs, I clasped onto the vehicle before it could whiz past it.

As I started to claw my way into the vessel, it entered into my brain that whoever was navigating this craft might not appreciate my dropping by so unexpectedly. Well, maybe if I asked really politely, I could persuade the driver to drop me off at the next building or anywhere else that was remotely solid, instead of kicking me out into the air again.

It was only when the driver announced cheerily, "That was wacky!" that I recognized the pilot as none other than my unruly Padawan.

Obviously it's him because who else on the whole planet would fly about with such blatant disregard for his own safety or the rules of air traffic? I demanded exasperatedly of myself as I clambered into the passenger's seat beside Anakin.

"What took you so long?" I asked him, trusting that he would detect the trace of gratitude for the rescue in my tone just as I had discerned the relieved nuance in his previous statement. It was a stupid game that we engaged in together: pretending that we didn't give a decicred about each other when in reality we did. All too much, perhaps.

"Oh, you know, Master," explained my apprentice, his frivolity implying that we were relaxing one of Coruscant's balconies and describing the images we saw in the clouds. As he continued, he lounged back in his chair and slung his left arm up on the edge of the open speeder, adopting a posture that was the embodiment of casualness, "I couldn't find a speeder that I really liked. One with an open cockpit, of course―"

Inwardly, I conceded reluctantly that it would, in fact, require a considerable amount of time to commandeer a senator's vehicle, and it would, indeed, have to be one with an open cockpit if the borrowing without permission but with every intention of returning in the best possible condition could be accomplished. Unfortunately, since most senators invested more credits than the average Aqualish laborer made in a standard decade in their cruisers, very few of them purchased ones with open cockpits, because, as Anakin's actions illustrated, it was easy to steal crafts with open cockpits. The fact that few senators possessed open cockpit vessels probably was the reason why my Padawan had been compelled to select a ship that was a brighter yellow than most nebulae. Its ostentatious hue screamed that someone couldn't resist showing that wealth could buy objects but not taste.

"And with the right speed capabilities," rambled on Anakin with the same levity. "Then, you know, I had to hold out for just the right color―"

I was about to suggest that his vision, his sanity, or his taste was lacking if he believed that this nauseating yellow was the perfect shade for anything but a torture chamber. However, the thought was erased when I saw the closed-in yellow speeder that had been parked behind the assassin fly by us on a tangent.

"There!" I exclaimed, jabbing at the vehicle. With his lightning reflexes, Anakin whipped our transport about instantly and angled us off into rapid pursuit of our quarry. The predator was now the prey.

The prey was far from helpless, though. Almost immediately, an arm stretched out of the lead speeder's open window, wielding a blaster pistol, and the assassin squeezed off a series of shots.

"If you'd spend as much time working on your lightsaber skills as you do on your wit, young Padawan, you would rival Master Yoda for swordsman," I remarked, maintaining the dialogue between my apprentice and me to take my mind off the fact that we would both probably be perishing in the imminent future. As I established as much, I dodged the bullets, a task that was rendered more difficult by the fact that I was being jostled about as Anakin spun us into a sequence of evasive maneuvers. I was teasing him since my Padawan invested more than enough time in honing his lightsaber skills, and we both knew it.

"I thought I already did that," stated Anakin slyly.

"Only in your mind, my very young apprentice," I educated him sharply. Yes, I recognized that he was jesting, but that he would make such a comment at all was symptomatic of his ever-growing complacency. No Jedi could be Master Yoda's peer at fencing. Even Master Windu, with his Vaapad, could not be placed on par with the grand master of our Order, and, to his credit, I suspected that Master Windu would be the first to acknowledge as much respectfully and without a hint of bitterness.

Granted, Anakin's extraordinary Force connection might very well permit him to surpass Master Yoda one day, but that time was very far away at the present, and my Padawan still had much to learn if he ever aspired to achieve such a goal. For now, he was light-years behind Yoda in just about everything imaginable and it wouldn't do him any harm to recollect this crucial tidbit of data.

At this juncture, my impossible apprentice decided that it would be advisable to follow the assassin's lead and weave in and out of the traffic lanes without any concern about the direction the rest of the lane happened to be traveling in, something that annoyed the occupants of the other crafts if their honking horns and rude hand gestures were any indicators.

"Hey, easy," I ordered after we almost smashed head-on into our third vessel. "You know I don't like it when you do that." That was an understatement. I liked it when he pulled off stunts like that as much as most organisms enjoyed receiving a taxman's letter or an eviction notice from their landlord.

"Sorry. I forgot you don't like flying, Master," snickered Anakin. At the end, his voice rose while he took our speeder down abruptly to avoid another hailstorm of blaster bolts from the assassin.

"I don't mind flying," I disputed, although that wasn't entirely true. If I could have lived my whole life without flying, I would have done so without a tinge of remorse, but my wish wasn't likely to be fulfilled and I had long ago come to terms with that fact. "But what you're doing is suicide." With my murder mixed in for good measure, might I add.

Anakin chose to prove the veracity of my assessment by pivoting sharply to the right and dropping abruptly. From this perspective, it appeared that the spire of the edifice below us was quickly approaching us, although, technically, it was us that were rushing toward it. We were going to become dead Jedi kabobs. Any remaining vestige of gratitude I might have harbored toward Anakin for saving me faded when I noticed that he had only granted me a temporary reprieve from the icy scythe of death. Sure, every time a life was saved, it was only a temporary gift since everything eventually perished, but most reprieves lasted more than five minutes, and I resented my Padawan for raising my hopes that I would survive this horror story only to dash them again with his manic piloting.

In this particular case, my worst fears that we would be impaled upon the spire never came to fruitition, thank the Force, for Anakin tugged back on the throttle at the last possible second. This allowed him to life the nose of our craft and zip it through the traffic until we were once again closing the gap between us and the assassin.

"Master, I've been flying since before I could walk," Anakin boasted, soaring past a commuter air train almost close enough to scrape the paint off both of the vehicles that had narrowly averted a collision that would have been far more injurious to us than it would have been to the train. "I'm very good at this."

As I had been dealing with him for a decade now, I was cognizant of his talent as a pilot, but it only took one miscalculation for the pair of us to perish in an inferno reminiscent of the hells depicted in the folklores of many worlds spanning the galaxy. If that happened, I would find out how to return from the dead and murder him, even if he was already dead himself.

"Just slow down," I commanded, but, as usual, I would have done better not to waste my breath because my directive went unheeded.

When the assassin attempted to shake us off his trail in a convoy of gigantic freight vessels, and then whipped through several impossibly tight corners into slender crevices between structures, Anakin matched every move. Around and around the two lunatics went, cutting through and under the traffic, and circling the buildings, somehow always managing to keep one another in sight. Clearly, the assassin was as brilliant a pilot as my Padawan was, and that was quite a compliment.

However, my apprentice had a differing viewpoint on the capabilities of the other pilot. "He can't lose me," bragged Anakin as he skimmed the wall of a conapt as he pursued the other craft. "He's getting desperate."

"Great," I remarked dryly, aware that desperate sentients were the most dangerous ones in the galaxy. Once an organism was convinced that it was going to die no matter what, it became filled with impotent fury, which motivated it to kill as many of the adversary as possible along with it. I didn't want my Padawan and me to be victims of the assassin's desperation. Blast it, if only I could persuade my apprentice to slow down…

"Wait!" I barked when the assassin's speeder charged into a tram tunnel. "Do not go in there."

"Don't worry, Master," Anakin soothed and sent the speeder into the tunnel after our quarry. He sounds as if he is humoring me, I observed mentally, but this is― oh no! The light just ahead wasn't the end of the tunnel as I had imagined, but rather the head of a massive oncoming passenger tram.

Barely in time, Anakin and the assassin spun their ships about and hurried back the way they had entered. We emerged from the tunnel just ahead of the high-speed tram that was blowing horn irately at us for our folly. When I realized that we would live through this moment of insanity, I released the breath I hadn't even been aware that I was holding.

"You know I don't like it when you do that," I repeated a statement I had made earlier this night, swallowing the bile that had burned its path up my throat at the near accident with the tram.

"Sorry, Master." Anakin's tone was still kilometers away from apologetic and I mentally upgraded my classification of him from impossible to incorrigible. "Don't worry. This guy's going to kill himself any minute now."

"Well, let him do that alone," I reasoned as we both watched the assassin burst right into the traffic and charged the wrong direction down a congested lane.

Although I deemed my logic as unassailable, my Padawan did not share my enlightened view if the way he raced after the assassin was any method of judging. Both of our vessels whipped around a corner with barely a millimeter to spare and past a row of banners waving in the wind. The left wing of our speeder clipped one of the flags, and our craft lurched as the banner draped across its front.

"That was too close," I told Anakin.

"Clear that!" Anakin hollered.

"What?" For a moment, I didn't understand. Then, I recognized that the flag was obstructing one of the air scoops. Without air, our engine was strangling. I leaned out of the speeder, trying to grab onto the banner and yank it away from the air scoop. Unfortunately, however, the flag was out of my reach.

"Clear the flag!" Anakin scowled as he battled the controls. "Hurry, we're losing power!"

There was only one thing for me to do. Sighing, I scrambled out onto the engine until I could reach the banner. When I pulled it free, the speeder leaned forward suddenly as it regained all the speed it had lost. The jerk almost caused me to lose my grip on the engine entirely, and I slid backward nearly a meter before I caught myself.

"I don't like it when you do that," I complained as I crawled back into my seat. My brain was too busy recovering from the trauma of balancing myself on the engine to come up with a more witty comment.

"So sorry, Master," answered Anakin, and this time I thought that he did mean the words, at least a little, but only a little.

The incident with the flag had cost us time― the assassin's vessel was well ahead of us now, but my Padawan played his controls like a musician would his instrument and was able to close the gap between us once more. He was navigating Podracers ever since he was six-years-old, I reminded myself, as I did whenever we ended up in one of these berserk chases. This notion was never the balm I initially intended for it to function as because it forced me to recall that Anakin had the distinction of having crashed every Pod he had ever raced except the final one that had bought his liberty. It was a marvel that he had survived all those crashes, but I supposed that the Force wasn't going to let the Chosen One go until he had completed his destiny and brought it back into balance, whatever that entailed.

And what was Anakin doing now? Was he seriously about to follow the assassin into that power refinery?

"It's dangerous near those power couplings," I warned, trying to encourage my apprentice not to follow the assassin's impulsive action. "Don't go through there."

Yet, Anakin dove after the other craft, anyhow. The presence of our two vehicles in the refinery triggered the activation of a series of giant electric arcs.

"What are you _doing_?" I demanded as my Padawan drove our speeder through the first of the electrical fields, and the charge tingled through me, rippling from the tips of my hair straight down to my toes.

"Sorry, Master!" Anakin decided to go with an apology rather than an explanation, or perhaps he didn't have one. His harried tone indicated that he was struggling to maintain control over the transport because the electric currents were obviously hurting him as well.

Recognizing that he didn't need another distraction to contend with, I clamped my mouth shut until we had exited the refinery. Then, I noted with a healthy does of sarcasm, "Oh, that was good."

"That was crazy," Anakin concurred flatly, his eyes still fixed on the craft ahead of us.

"I'm so glad you agree" was on the tip of my tongue when the other speeder twisted sideways and halted in the mouth of an alley, firing point blank at us.

"Stop," I yelled. If we stayed on this course, we would ram straight into the other speeder. No, maybe not. There was an impossibly minuscule gap just below the assassin's vehicle, and Anakin appeared to be aiming directly at it.

"We can make it," Anakin declared, the epitome of confidence. The next moment, we were underneath the assassin's ship. My apprentice was able to navigate us through the gap, but our speeder smashed into a pipe on the other side and spun wildly about as a result.

Dimly, I saw a construction crane and a pair of supporting struts swing by. Then, I felt our speeder brushed against something, and an enormous gas ball enveloped us. A second later, our speeder bumped into a building and stalled.

Why do I always let him drive? I groaned inwardly, burying my head in my hands as I called myself nine sorts of imbecile. "I'm crazy, I'm crazy," I muttered, thinking that it was about time I checked both my Padawan and I into a mental institute before either of us could inflict any more damage upon ourselves or other beings. If I was flagellating myself, Anakin was not reprimanding himself.

"I got us through that one all right," he commented in a satisfied tone.

His smugness caused my blood to boil. "No, you didn't," I countered in a testy voice. "We've stalled, and you almost got us killed."

"Oh, I think we're still alive," responded Anakin flippantly. He fiddled around with the controls for a moment, and the engine sputtered before roaring back to life. When the engine started to work again, he smiled, as though we had not lost the assassin all because he had to prove his skills as a pilot. The grin infuriated me, because it was obvious that he had not truly listened to a word that had escaped my lips earlier.

"It was _stupid_!" I snapped, finally allowing myself to reveal my anger and frustration with him.

At last, my tone penetrated my apprentice's bubble of self-satisfaction, and he blinked before hanging his head. It didn't take a genius to conclude that he was alarmed by what he deemed as my harshness. After all, I rarely raised my voice at him, but this situation and his complete absence of any semblance of repentance was nothing short of utterly exasperating.

"I could have caught him," protested Anakin once he had recovered from his surprise at my display of temper. Anyone else might have let the matter drop, but he had to argue the point.

"But you didn't," I interrupted, glaring at him to show that I wasn't going to enter into a debate about the odds of various hypothetical events occurring. "And now we've lost him for good."

This sentiment had only just left my lips when an explosion rocked our speeder. Reflexively, Anakin and I ducked, dodging the blaster bolts that rained down upon us. Once the pzing of bullets striking the sides of our craft and the durasteel wall of the nearby edifice had abated, I felt our speeder tilt sideways as Anakin guided it into the air again and tried to escape the ambush.

"No, we haven't," smirked my Padawan as our ship rose and we confronted the assassin once more.


	5. Chapter 5

Death Sticks

Through the suffocating smoke and blazing flames, Anakin sent our commandeered speeder roaring after the assassin's into the night traffic. After zig-zagging between the jammed lanes for several minutes with my Padawan copying every movie, the assassin maneuvered his craft down steeply and then yanked it sharply to the left.

Watching the assassin's movements, I expected that Anakin would fly off in pursuit of him. Instead, doubtlessly acting upon some bizarre compulsion understandable only to himself at best, my apprentice whipped our vessel to the right.

"What are you doing?" I inquired tersely since I was still miffed about the stall. Without bothering to pause to listen to the next lunatic plot he had devised because my blood pressure was already sufficiently elevated, I informed him, "He went down there― the other way."

"Master, if we keep this chase going, that creep is going to end up deep-fried." Ignoring the possibility that with him as our pilot it was equally likely that the pair of us would end up roasted, Anakin heaved a martyred sigh, as if he judged that attempting to explain something to me was as pointless an endeavor as trying to give a fish a bath. I could recognize the symptoms of this exasperated impotence. After all, it was how I felt most of the time when I strove to teach him a lesson. "This is a shortcut, I think."

"What do you mean you _think_?" I demanded, as Anakin halted the transport and left it hovering between two gigantic crumbling edifices, whose deterioration revealed that we were certainly in the lower stratums of Coruscant now. It was ironic that he would employ such an expression when his main problem in life was that he never hesitated long enough between his actions to think. When it came down to it, my Padawan was all feeling and impulse with no room for the head to intercede, however much it could have made a valuable contribution. My question garnered no response, and I was forced to repeat like a scratched holorecord, "Well, you lost him."

"I'm deeply sorry, Master," mumbled Anakin, the absent quality in his tone attesting to the depths of remorse coursing through him. I wished that I could remind him that an apology was as useless as flapping your arms and hoping to reach lightspeed was if it wasn't genuine. Yet, I couldn't establish as much aloud. All such a remark would earn me was another apology for utilizing an excessive amount of them, and I wasn't in the mood to hear such a thing.

"Some shortcut," I muttered instead. Waving my hand in frustration at the direction that assassin had gone, I continued, "He went completely the other way. Anakin―"

"Excuse me for a moment," interjected the addressed brusquely, ruining the flow of my lecture. His eyes lit upon some distal motion and, without warning, he leapt out of the speeder.

For a moment, I was convinced that he had surrendered the last trace of his sanity, which was the reason why he had jumped out of a speeder that was at least twenty levels above the permacrete surface of Coruscant, which was a fatal distance to fall even with the Force as a buffer. Then, I realized that his plan wasn't quite as stupid and suicidal as it initially appeared, although that admittedly didn't serve as much of a compliment. It turned out that my Padawan had taken what might have been termed as a calculated risk, and he seemed to have attained his objective, because he had timed his jump perfectly so that he landed on the roof of the assassin's yellow vessel.

I had just noticed this when I saw Anakin nearly slide off the craft below as the assassin gunned the engines. Then, as my apprentice clawed his way toward the cockpit, the assassin slammed on the brakes of his vehicle abruptly, and Anakin flew forward. Luckily, he managed to clutch one of the front forks of the speeder just in time to prevent himself from toppling off the craft. Still, he couldn't keep up this dangerous game for very long. I would have to assist him.

Complaining under my breath about how much I detested it when my Padawan did impetuous things like this, I slipped into the pilot's chair of the vessel Anakin had borrowed from some unwitting senator and started to fly down toward the fray.

I was halfway there when I witnessed Anakin's lightsaber, which he had been utilizing to deflect a steady barrage of blaster bolts being shot at him from the assassin, soar from his grip. Shaking my head resignedly as I observed that my apprentice would never learn how to keep his weapon with him at all times no matter how many times I told him that a Jedi's lightsaber was his life, I sped after the weapon and caught it in my hand on its downward arc.

I had just finished catching Anakin's lightsaber and was about to fly over to help my Padawan by harrying the assassin as much as I could when it became obvious that the other driver had issues enough of his own to contend with, and I need not trouble myself with creating more for him. Resembling a fiery comet streaking through the midnight sky, the assassin's vehicle plummeted toward the ground, completely out of control with Anakin clinging onto it.

I was barely able to prevent myself from closing my eyes in horror at this state of affairs by reminding myself that there was nothing to be gained by my crashing into a nearby structure in sympathy for my Padawan's plight since that would only add one more casualty to the list and would damage the already far from valuable real estate. Still, my eyes remained on the doomed craft as if I could prevent it from being consumed entirely by flames with my apprentice on board by sheer willpower. A mighty tide of relief swelled through me when I saw the assassin regain enough semblance of control over his vessel at the last possible millisecond to tilt the nose of the speeder to a degree that allowed it to skid into a hard landing rather than a full-scale inferno of a crash.

Sparks showered everywhere and the seedy lowlifes of all species clustered on the walkway screamed and scattered away from the vehicle as it made its emergency landing while I dropped the commandeered speeder to touch down near the assassin.

By the time I had landed in a far less pyrotechnic display than the one the assassin had provided, Anakin was already charging through the poor immigrants, gang members, illegal substance sellers, and females of ill repute that inhabited this rough neighborhood of Coruscant, which was referred to as the Crimson Corridor, in a perverse homage to the amount of blood that was shed here every day. This is definitely not a location where we want to be out this late, I commented inwardly as I rushed after Anakin, because this was a sector where most denizens took the life out of night life with glee and expertise. Of course, night did not really exist in the Crimson Corridor. The sun's rays rarely touched here, which was why the inhabitants lived in a perpetual twilight that was only illuminated by cheap antiquated glow rods and neon holoadvertisements, which permitted the citizens to essentially invent their own schedules for waking and sleeping.

"Anakin!" I shouted when the young man came with earshot as his steps flagged outside a dingy building that seemed to be a typical low-level shady cantina that catered to the vermin who frequented it.

Panting slightly, Anakin pivoted to regard me as I joined him outside the cantina that, in a twisted tribute to the outlaws that doubtlessly kept it in business, was called The Outlander, or so a flickering neon holobanner outside its entranceway proclaimed.

"She went into that club, Master," Anakin burst out as if I could not have surmised as much for myself. It could not have been plainer that he was trying to distract me so that I wouldn't chide him for dropping his lightsaber for what must have been the fiftieth time in recent memory. Furthermore, it was even more clear, if that were possible, which apparently it was, that he wanted to dash in there after the assassin. That was the wrong course of action. If we did that, the assassin would know we had arrived and would be able to lose himself in the multitudes at the cantina. From there, it would be easy for him to leave the cantina and enter into the thronging streets of Coruscant, where he would be able to roam around without getting caught for the length of a main sequence star, owing to the fact that there were billions of sentients on Coruscant, which rendered tracking down one being virtually impossible. Therefore, if we desired to catch the assassin, we would have to bait him.

"Patience," I ordered Anakin, deciding that he would learn more if he could arrive at this conclusion for himself, but he could only do that once I forced him to stop and consider the matter. Once he did that, he would reach the same answer that I had. He did have a sharp mind when he elected to use it, after all. The trick was in slowing him down enough to do so. "Use the Force, Anakin. Think."

"Sorry, Master," my Padawan offered another automatic apology. I suspected that he had barely listened to my directive at all since he was practically quivering with eagerness to hunt down the assassin.

I exhaled gustily. Who was I kidding? Nobody could compel Anakin to cease plowing on ahead if he didn't want to be stopped. I would have to virtually hand the answer over to him on a platter despite the fact that he was almost twenty and should have been better at strategy by this point in his training.

"He went in there to hide, not run," I educated him with as much patience as I could muster under these vexing circumstances.

"Oh. Yes, Master." I could basically see the glow stick over his head illuminate as his eyes widened in sudden comprehension. Satisfied, I decided to switch the subject.

"Here." I held out his lightsaber, handle first, to him. "Next time, try not to lose it."

Anakin nodded dutifully and extended a hand to accept the proffered weapon. However, I wasn't confident that he had absorbed my point and, aware that I had his attention while I possessed his lightsaber, I pulled it away from him again.

"A Jedi's lightsaber is his most precious possession," I stated, reiterating a point that I had established too many times for even the cleverest mathematician to count.

"Yes, Master," groaned Anakin, who was all too obviously only just managing to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. The words had scarcely emerged from his lips when he reached out to grab his weapon and again I tugged it back. I had to pound this lesson into him because he wasn't going to learn it the hard way― like I had in a battle with a Sith Lord on Naboo.

"He must keep it with him at all times," I went on in a level tone as though I had not detected his growing aggravation and his mounting impatience.

"I _know_, Master." This time, Anakin's eyes actually rolled as he made this contention, even though it was clear that he didn't know because if he had, he wouldn't have dropped it. If he really did know, then I wouldn't have to remind him.

"This weapon is your life," I concluded softly.

"I've heard this lesson before." My apprentice brushed this off, because apparently he had as little regard for his life as he did for his lightsaber.

"But you haven't learned anything, Anakin," I sighed and finally surrendered the weapon to him. There was no profit in continuing this exchange. My Padawan didn't want to hear my instruction and there was no reason to yammer onto someone whose ears and mind were clamped shut. Lately, more and more of our conversations were ending up like this. It was very frustrating since there was so much potential in Anakin, and I just wanted to hone it―to shape him into a better Jedi than I was myself. I already knew he would be more powerful, but I wished for him to be more than powerful.

My resignation must have announced itself to my apprentice, because he deflated like a balloon without helium, slumping as he generally did when he felt that I was disappointed in him. "I try, Master," he told me in a voice that was only a little above a whisper.

Glancing at him, I couldn't prevent myself from sighing again. After all, it was the truth. Even his most ardent critics on the Council would concur that Anakin Skywalker always strove to do the best he could. Sometimes he succeeded beyond anyone's highest expectations, and sometimes he failed just as spectacularly― it was always one of the two because there was no middle ground with my Padawan― but he could never be faulted for a lack of trying. When I spotted his dejection, I longed to relent, and yet I couldn't. I needed him to realize how much impact his actions could have.

"Why do I think you're going to be the death of me?" I asked, shaking my head. I was half-joking and half-serious. No, I didn't believe that my apprentice would ever set out with the desire to murder me, but he could very well do it by accident because he wasn't thinking. It didn't require much imagination to envision him killing me with his manic piloting.

"Don't say that, Master!" exclaimed Anakin, heedless of the hordes of beings around us who would overhear as we entered the cantina. Ironically, the notion of my dying seemed to have more of an effect upon him than the idea of him perishing did, and my comment had undeniably hit home if the way he had flinched was any indicator. Before I could reply, he had swallowed and elaborated in a lower tone, "You're the closest thing that I have to a father. I love you. I don't want to cause you pain."

I knew that I was indeed the father figure in Anakin's life, just like Qui-Gon had been the only father I had ever been familiar with. That being said, I did understand how he craved my approval and my affectation, and I was proud of so much in Anakin, but there were times when it was appropriate to establish as much, and now wasn't one of them. Or was it?

When I was teaching Anakin, there were so many occasions when I didn't have a clue of how I was supposed to conduct myself as a good Master. At such times, I wished fervently that Qui-Gon had survived the duel with the Sith Lord on Naboo, so that he could have taught Anakin with far more skill than I. However, the wishing never resurrected my former Master, and I had to do the best that I could with my Padawan, who would have to make do with his imperfect mentor.

Well, I would operate under the assumption that it was better not to praise him in this instance. After all, it was always easier to speak at a later date than to take back words that had already escaped from careless lips. So, in the end, I only pressed mildly, "Then why don't you listen to me?"

"I _am_ trying," insisted my apprentice, all earnestness. I could accept that. Listening to authority figures was hardly Anakin's strong suit, but I was willing to believe that he did not set out with the goal of distressing me with his disobedience, no matter how much it might sometimes appear that was his objective. It probably just happened because, like Qui-Gon, he was dominated by a free spirit that wouldn't be curtailed by the commands of anyone. Like my former Master, he had the overwhelming compulsion to blaze his own trail. For better or for worse, unlike me, he couldn't stick to the narrow road that had been paved for him over the course of a millennium by his forebears and trust that it was the best way, and, unfortunately, he often seemed to regard me as an ancestor whose advice could be disregarded at whim. Yet, because it reminded me so much of my own Master, I couldn't ever summon the reserve to squelch down on that independent streak. It was just as well, I always told myself, that I allowed Anakin to keep his unique nature, because life would be awfully dull if everybody was cut from the same fabric.

Therefore, instead of responding to this assertion, I nodded around at the packed cantina, which was filled to carrying capacity with men and women of all species drinking, smoking, or inhaling a wide berth of substances that would alter their brain chemistry in varying fashions and in varying strengths as they gambled, flirted, or watched athletic competitions on the old models of holoscreens affixed to the walls.

"Do you see him?" I inquired.

"I think he's a she," Anakin declared in a vacant manner, his eyes scanning the swarming cantina as he searched for the assassin among the masses of inebriated organisms. Possibly we could just find a female who was sober and assume she was the assassin at this point. I was surprised that the assassin was a female because men were far more predominant in such violent fields, but there were exceptions to every rule. "And I think she's a changling."

In that case, it was a real bonus that she would be coming to us, and we wouldn't be trying to find her. If we could not have even identified her as a specific species, tracking her down would have been a nightmare.

"Then be extra careful," I cautioned him. When Anakin gaped at me, I nodded at the crowded room and added, "Go and find her."

"But―but where are you going, Master?" he stuttered as I headed off toward the bar.

"To get a drink," I tossed over my shoulder.

When I had settled myself in a stool at the bar and had ordered a Coruscant Cooler from the tender, a slight man in the seat beside me who had either never been introduced to a vibrorazor or else did not approve of utilizing them for some reason if his hairy face was any means of judging, whirled about to face me.

"Would you like to buy some death sticks?" The drunken man beside me slurred over his words as he posed this question to me. Obviously, the alcoholic beverage that he was slurping was not within his first five drinks this evening.

"You don't want to sell me any death sticks," I pronounced, calling on the Force to influence his alcohol-fogged mind. I had no need for death sticks, which were named for the fact that smoking just one of them could take ten years off a human's life, and half of those who smoked a death stick for the first time died as a result, when I had Anakin. My Padawan was guaranteed to put twenty years on a body if they hung around him for too long, and his piloting probably would be the death of me in the end. If he didn't kill me in a speeder crash, he would murder me by overtaxing the engine of a vehicle and sending it up in flames.

"I don't want to sell you death sticks," echoed the man. His instantaneous compliance revealed that he was truly wasted, which explained why his mind was so susceptible to manipulation by the Force.

"You want to go home and re-think your life," I persisted, pushing on his weak mind with the Force for the second time as my Coruscant Cooler arrived and I took a small sip of it.

"I want to go home and re-think my life," agreed the man, shoving himself out of his stool and lumbering off toward the exit. His gait was remarkably well-coordinated considering that he must have been considerably over the legal limit, I noted as I watched him navigate his path through the crowd without banging into too many sentients.

Watching him depart, I hoped that he would indeed decide to think about his horrible career choice and elect to pursue a more respectable and fulfilling lifestyle. Then I shook my head at my own folly. There was no way that he would do any such thing. By tomorrow evening, he would be back at the bar, destroying his kidneys and selling illegal drugs to the patrons of this cantina. That was his life and it wasn't going to change no matter what I did. The only change would be that, over time, the amount of alcohol he consumed would rise as he would require more and more of it to transport him to a realm of irrational and irresponsible bliss.

This depressing sentiment had only just left my mind when the Force shook ominously in warning. Behind me, a menace was approaching. That would be the assassin. Wonderful. Now if everything went according to plan….

I could feel the assassin's fingers flex around her blaster's trigger as she prepared to shoot, and, just before she could fire, I spun around, withdrawing my lightsaber from my belt and igniting it in one swift motion as I turned. Before she could react, my weapon hummed through the air and sliced off the arm that held her blaster.

The beings bunched closest to the bar whirled about to regard the scene in shocked silence. Apparently, they weren't so intoxicated that they couldn't discern that blood had been spilled, I observed in a distant corner of my mind as I watched the assassin crumble to the floor beside her fallen weapon, clutching the gory stump that had been a functioning arm mere seconds ago. The severed bottom of her arm rested in a bloody pool to her right. Although the injury looked terrible, it wasn't as dreadful as it appeared. Not only would the assassin live, but she would be able to purchase a mechanical replacement that would allow her to exist almost exactly as she had before I had lobbed off her limb. For now, though, she was not in a fighting mood, and Anakin and I would be able to draw information out of her about who had hired her services.

Some of the other patrons of the cantina were beginning to mutter or clutch their pistols or vibroknives menacingly now that they had recovered from my attack on the assassin. Before I could quiet them, Anakin joined me, his lightsaber activated, and raised his hand at them in a pacifying gesture.

"Easy," he shouted, and I was taken aback by the deep maturity in his voice. My Padawan was indeed growing up. "Jedi business. Go back to your drinks."

Slowly, the hands released the weapons and the muttering was replaced by the raucous chatting of the drunk. Although the Jedi were not beloved by the outlaws that inhabited the lower levels, those who lived in the lowest stratas of Coruscanti society both literally and metaphorically had mastered the knack of not involving themselves in disputes that did not directly pertain to them. Life was too short and precious to squander on a stranger, after all. Besides, they were not ecstatic about combating two men with lightsabers who were sober while they were in a state where walking and thinking had become challenging endeavors.

Once the other occupants of the cantina had returned to their drinks, the potential danger was over, and I switched off my lightsaber. Barely a nanosecond later, Anakin copied me and thumbed off his weapon as well. After stowing away our lightsabers, my apprentice and I stooped over and carried the wounded assassin out of the cantina. Our journey was made less complicated by the fact that the rest of the sentients in the room were quick to move out of our way when they saw us approaching because they didn't want to have their limbs chopped off.

"Who was it that you were trying to kill?" I demanded of the assassin even though I knew the answer to this query. As I placed this question to her, Anakin and I leaned her against the wall of the cantina, and I started to tend to her injury, applying antiseptic to and stanching the blood flow from her wound. While I worked, I tried to block the foul odors that filled the street from swamping into my nostrils and distracting me. Every time I ended up in the lower levels of Coruscant, I was appalled by the uncollected garbage that littered the byways, the smell of the polluting gases that plagued the air down here because the planet did not bother to buy atmosphere cleaners to make breathing safe for the poor that lived in the worst areas of Coruscant, and the stench of unwashed sentients. When combined, these smells were nothing short of nauseous. I couldn't imagine living down here as millions of the poorest organisms in the galaxy were forced to do.

"The Senator from Naboo," the assassin gritted. She must have been in tremendous agony, and it was amazing that she hadn't gone into shock as a result of blood loss, but she would not bring herself to admit it to us. She was too proud and too strong for such weakness.

"Who hired you?" I wanted to know.

"It was just a job." Despite the pain she was in, the assassin gathered the requisite energy to shoot me a withering glance. "The next one won't make the same mistake I did."

Although I had anticipated that whoever had paid for this assassin to do away with Senator Amidala would not give up just because the being they had hired to murder Amidala had failed, the confirmation that this was the case did not cause me to go into spasms of delight. Anakin's reaction to the assassin's words, however, was far more explosive than mine.

"Tell us who hired you!" he barked, and I directed a quelling glance at him. Jedi did not indulge in such demonstrations of temper, and he shouldn't have been angered so easily at this point in his training. Obviously, he perceived any threat on Senator Amidala as a personal one, and he could not afford to be so devoted to one being. However, he ignored my look and growled at the assassin, "Tell us now!"

A shudder crept up and down the kinks of my spine when he issued this order. I thought that I had encountered every tone my Padawan's voice could adopt, but I had never heard this one. It was not one that would result from a quick flare of ire. It was one that brooked no argument, and one that showed the speaker was willing to do anything to force the addressed to adhere to his desires. It was the voice of a tyrant, not a moody but ultimately good-hearted young man. For a moment, I glimpsed a stranger where an adolescent I had known for a decade should have been. Then, the flicker disappeared, and Anakin had returned. Now I could only wonder if I had imagined it or if it had been a real occurrence.

The assassin's response to Anakin's galvanizing shout dragged me away from my musings. "It was a bounty hunter called―"

What exactly the bounty hunter who had hired her was named we did not have the privilege of discovering then, because there was a whistle through the air, and then the woman twitched, blinked in astonishment, and the life poured out of her. My mouth hanging open slightly, I glanced over my shoulder as a faint whoosh reached my ears, and I watched an armored figure wearing a jetpack whiz further up into the air from a perch on a nearby wall and soar around a building, out of sight. Yet, we would have to track him down if we hoped to receive any more answers. What a tangled web we wove.

Shaking my head at the convoluted nature of my existence, I stretched out a hand and removed a dart from the assassin's forever pulse-less neck. After studying it for a moment to see if I recognized what planet it had originated from since that might provide a clue as to where to find the bounty hunter who had hired the assassin, I held out the dart to Anakin for his inspection. Perhaps he would know where it was from even if I didn't.

"Toxic dart," I stated the obvious as I showed the dart to him. My apprentice gazed at it for a minute, and then shook his head at me to show that he had no notion as to where the dart had been created. That meant that Anakin and I would have to see an analysis droid at the Temple to discover where the bounty hunter had gotten the dart from, which would take time― time we might not have.

Relax, I instructed myself, you have to fill the Council in on this latest development anyway, so it won't suck up much more of your time to see an analysis droid during your visit. It's not as if you could have gone gallivanting after the bounty hunter without the consent of the Council anyway, so you wouldn't have been able to depart immediately even if Anakin had known where it was from. Your initial assignment was to protect Senator Amidala, not track down those who tried to kill her, after all.

Although that was an accurate assessment, I still was in a hurry to meet with the Council.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Sorry it took awhile to update, but my grandmother was in the hospital for awhile again because she had another stroke, and I had to spend a lot of time seeing her. This chapter is a little short, but it's better than nothing.

Happy Thanksgiving to all Americans. I hope that none of you were casualties in the annual Black Friday shopping extravaganza in which we all burn off all the potatoes, turkey, stuffing, and pie we gorged down. (Yes, the insane sales at Walmart and Target are the closest things Americans can come to outright anarchy.)

Reviews: Review and you can have some of my leftover apple pie if you remember to ask for it, because otherwise I might forget my promise, not out of malice, but out of sheer stupidity.

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New Assignments

Fortunately, the Jedi Council agreed to confer with us the next morning, and, once again, Anakin and I found ourselves standing in the center of the Council chamber as I reported on our progress. When I had explained about tracking down the assassin only to have her murdered by a second one and had requested to pursue the being who had killed the female assassin, a moment of silence ensued, in which Master Yoda scrutinized his fellow Council members briefly, as if he were tallying their votes. Then, he concurred, "Track down this bounty hunter you must, Obi-Wan."

"Most importantly, find out who he is working for," stipulated Master Windu.

Beside me, I felt some of the tension coiled inside my Padawan ease, and I groaned inwardly. While I appreciated Anakin's confidence in my ability to hunt down the assassin, he should have recognized by now that, unluckily, receiving an assignment did not always mean that it would be completed successfully. There was also still the problem of Senator Amidala to consider.

If Anakin and I were to track down the bounty hunter, then some other Jedi would have to protect her, because her security remained of paramount importance. After all, it wouldn't be very beneficial to capture those who had ordered her death, if she had already been murdered. With this in mind, I inquired, "What about Senator Amidala? She will still need protection."

"Handle that your Padawan will," ruled Yoda in his gravelly voice.

When he established as much, I gawked at him and saw that his expression was perfectly composed as if he were not cognizant of the significance of his own comment. However, I couldn't absorb this revelation with the same grace. My brain was flooded with images of Anakin alone, "guarding" Senator Amidala, the woman he was, by his own admittance, helplessly enamored of, and none of those pictures were pleasant or appropriate ones.

On the other end of the spectrum, my apprentice's initial alarm that Master Yoda, who was hardly his greatest champion, would advocate that he receive his first independent assignment was rapidly transforming into delight at this opportunity to prove himself and at being able to take one more step closer to the Trials. As his zeal washed over me in the Force, I could not bring myself to express my doubts so publically. He would be wounded by my lack of faith in him, and that wasn't something I wanted to do if I could avoid it. Maybe I could persuade Master Yoda that Anakin wasn't prepared for such a challenge yet privately later, although my Padawan would probably be capable of figuring out where such an idea had originated.

"Anakin," ordered Mace Windu, and I dragged myself away from my musings and back to reality, "escort the Senator back to her homeplanet. She'll be safer there, and don't use registered transport― travel as refugees."

"It will be very difficult to get Senator Amidala to leave the capital," Anakin noted, verbalizing my own fear. When he stated this fact, some of my concern leaked out of me, as I observed that he had elected to provide his brain with a novel experience by utilizing it. As long as he continued to do so and paused to think before charging ahead impulsively, he would be fine― and so would Senator Amidala.

"Until caught this killer is, our judgment she must respect," countered Master Yoda, his ears pointing downward in a quite ominous fashion. Theoretically, this was a reasonable assertion; however, on a practical level, it wasn't particularly feasible. After all, the woman we spoke of had only grudgingly accepted our aid, and, therefore, she would deem obeying the commands of a nineteen-year-old young man whom she remembered as a nine-year-old boy as being as welcome as a nut cutlet at a cannibal banquet. Glancing over at my Padawan, I spotted that his forehead was still furrowed in worry, implying that Yoda's advice hadn't been very reassuring to him either.

Luckily, the more pragmatic Master Windu, intervened at this juncture. As usual, he had a more immediate solution. "Anakin, go to the Senate and ask Chancellor Palpatine to speak with her," he directed, and I had to concede that was a brilliant strategy. After all, it was Palpatine's influence that had compelled the Senator to allow us to protect her in the first place, and the Chancellor would doubtlessly accede to Anakin's request since Palpatine would have given the Core systems to my Padawan if he had asked for them. Yes, one day Palpatine would demand pay back for all that he had invested in Anakin but that wasn't likely to occur today and we could fret about that catastrophe when it happened. For now, we could just gloss over it because it was an inconvenient fact for us to recollect.

Satisfied by Master Windu's resolution to the Senator Amidala issue, Anakin and I bowed, and, after everyone had exchanged automatic renditions of "May the Force be with you", departed.

After my apprentice had boarded an air taxi that would convey him to Chancellor Palpatine's office, I embarked on a quest to find Master Yoda. I could have commed him, but I preferred to spend the time necessary to track him down because that afforded me the opportunity to organize my thoughts in a relatively coherent manner.

Fifteen minutes into my mission to find him, I discovered Master Yoda circuiting the Temple corridors in his hover-chair, which permitted him to float around at face-height with Master Windu, who strolled beside him. When I noticed that the pair of them were engaged in an avid discussion that probably had major implications for the Jedi Order and, arguably, even the rest of the galaxy as a whole, I hesitated and considered retreating.

However, the two of them, having already noted my presence, nodded, encouraging me to speak. Still, I paused for a moment. I had only planned to seek Yoda's counsel about dispatching Anakin on his own to guard Senator Amidala, because, on a whole, the diminutive green master was easier to converse with than the towering and intimidating Korrunni one. Then again, another viewpoint could only be beneficial, and, besides, Master Windu had already demonstrated this morning that he was in better communion with the reality principle than Yoda was at times. At any rate, now that they had acknowledged me, I couldn't flee. That would be most impolite.

"I'm concerned for my Padawan," I confessed, reciting my prepared script. "He is not ready to be given this assignment on his own yet."

"The Council is confident in this decision, Obi-Wan," commented Master Yoda, tilting his neck so he could eye me slantwise. Then it slammed into me with enough velocity to knock the wind out of me that the distinguished Council members must have detected Anakin's attraction to a certain senator from Naboo. The Council was testing his dedication to the Order and the precept of non-attachment by throwing him alone together with her. In short, this assignment was as much a chance for him to fail as it was for him to succeed.

This was not the first time that I suspected the Council, which was generally hostile to Anakin just as he was adverse to it, was guilty of being too harsh with him. He wasn't ready for such a test, and we couldn't afford for him to stray, not with the Force growing blacker about us everyday.

"The boy has exceptional skills," remarked Master Windu, and I couldn't dispute that, especially since no Jedi was more cognizant of that than I was. After all, it was me who was witness for most of his breath-taking displays of mastery over the Force, but it wasn't his power that I questioned. It wasn't his heart, either, since I knew that my apprentice always sought to do what he perceived as the correct thing even if in the end it wasn't. It was his discipline that I doubted.

When it came down to it, in the final analysis, my Padawan still had the mind of a boy in the body of a man. Thus, if there was nobody around to drag his hand away from the uj cookie jar, his hand would invariably descend into its depths. Once there, it would not stop after one or two treats. Rather, it would continue to shovel sweets into his mouth until he was sick. Therefore, until he had learned the art of self-control, he should not be tested with the woman he was so drawn to. Yet, I didn't know how to articulate any of this, so, instead I contended, "But he still has much to learn, Master, and his abilities have made him― well, arrogant."

To my surprise, Master Yoda nodded emphatically, agreeing with my assessment. "Yes, yes," he confirmed, practically bouncing up and down in his hover-chair in his excitement. "It is a flaw more and more common among Jedi― too sure of themselves they are, even the older, more experienced ones."

Master Yoda is very worried about it, I realized with a pang, or else he wouldn't be so vehement or describe it as a common fault. For some reason, such a notion prompted me to reflect upon my initial encounters with Anakin Skywalker. He had been much older than normal to commence Jedi training. In fact, many, including myself at first, had claimed that he was too old to begin education as a Jedi. Yet, if Anakin had been too old to start his training, I had been notably young to take on the responsibility of a Padawan. Perhaps there was arrogance on more than one side of the equation.

But what else could I have done? I had vowed to Qui-Gon that I would train Anakin, and a Jedi's oath was sacred, and it was morally repugnant to break faith with a dead man, anyway. Still, maybe it had been arrogant of me to value my honor so much when Anakin's training could ruin the galaxy if it was botched. I would have to meditate upon that sometime after I had discovered who was behind the assassination attempts on Senator Amidala, which was a higher priority since it had been assigned by the Council and the sooner I did so, the sooner my apprentice would be separated from the temptation embodied in Senator Amidala.

"Remember, Obi-Wan, if the prophecy is true, your apprentice is the only one who can bring the Force back into balance," Master Windu reminded me as though there was even a remote possibility of my forgetting this critical piece of data for even a moment, and as if I hadn't read and agonized over every cryptic line of the prophecy, which always created more inquiries than it answered every time I pursued a copy of it in the Archives.

"If he follows the right path," I murmured without thinking out of an academic habit of leaving all paths open. Then, I contemplated the full impart of the words that had poured out of my mouth and shivered.

What would happen to the galaxy if the Chosen One went over to the Dark Side? How many lives would be destroyed if Anakin Skywalker decided to employ his incredible gifts to the detriment rather than the advantage of everyone else? There were questions whose responses would keep me awake for many nights in a row if I let them, but I would not.

You won't even space down that perilous lane, I directed myself sharply, as if I were addressing my Padawan. You can't expect your apprentice to trust you if you don't have faith in him. Besides, you know Anakin. You are familiar with his inner nature. You have see n that all he really desires to do is assist others. That will allow him to vanquish his youthful hubris in the fullness of time.

Those instructions were still ringing inside my head as I rode an air taxi from Senator Amidala's conapt suite in 500 Republica to Spaceport Nine with Anakin, Captain Typho, and Senator Amidala's decoy, Dorme, in attendance several hours later. The journey to Spaceport Nine, where Anakin and Senator Amidala, accompanied by Artoo, would board the freighter that would transport them to Naboo, was fortunately only a quarter of an hour long, which meant that I had most of the day left to start the investigation into who was behind the attempts on the Senator's life. It was also lucky that Naboo, like Alderaan, was renowned for its lenient immigration policies and an economy that permitted anone with enough grit to get ahead and make themselves a name in respectable society, because that rendered it simple to find a freighter traveling there on which to book passage, as well as made it a basic task for my Padawan and the Senator to pretend to be refugees, which explained why both of them had donned the loose, drab attire of peasants.

As our air taxi driver navigated our vessel onto the bustling customer landing pad that serviced Spaceport Nine, I pulled Anakin aside for some last minute counsel while Senator Amidala and Dorme exchanged a rather weepy farewell. Ignoring my apprentice's glower, I repeated the mission instructions issued by the Council with a tidbit of extra emphasis for good measure. Since I couldn't spoil the test the Coouncil had devised by reminding my Padawan of the Jedi dictum of non-attachment which prohibited romantic entanglements, I would have to settle for rehashing his duty to him. Hopefully, if he just followed my orders, he would not roam from the Jedi path.

"Anakin, you stay on Naboo," I concluded. "Don't do anything without first consulting either myself or the Council."

"Yes, Master," replied Anakin, emerging from his mental hiatus that had coincided with my reiteration of his assignment, his tone utterly unenthusiastic.

I debated inwardly whether or not to pose an inquiry to which the correct response was a negative rather than an affirmative one just to call him out for blatantly not listening to a word that escaped from my lips. In the end, though, I chose not to do so. It was not as if my headstrong, overconfident, and brash Padawan would attend to a third repeat of directions than he would to a second one. Anyway, there was not the time to do so, since Anakin and Senator Amidala had only half an hour to get past security and board their freighter.

The fact that we had no more time remaining for conversation was apparent when a now absolutely calm Senator Amidala pivoted away from Dorme and joined Anakin and me. As she approached us, I assured her, "I will get to the bottom of this plot quickly, my lady. You will be back here in no time."

In this case, of course, the imprecise adverb "quickly" conveniently enough could run the gamut from a day or two to a month or two. It was the brand of political jargon that she would comprehend best, although this time because I was a Jedi I would seriously do anything within my power to fulfill my oath.

"I will be most grateful for your speed, Master Jedi," returned Senator Amidala. Her crisp tone illustrated quite eloquently that she was still miffed about leaving Coruscant while the fate of the Military Creation Act which she had so adamantly opposed, was being determined in the Galactic Senate.

I was striving to concoct an appeasing remark to voice to her in order to make this situation less of a combustible one for my Padawan when Anakin bent down, scooped up the battered luggage of his and Senator Amidala, and announced, "Time to go."

At this, Senator Amidala embraced Dorme again, and then she and my apprentice walked over to the door, where a tootling Artoo awaited them, with Captain Typho and me following on their heels.

"May the Force be with you," I told Anakin when our congregation had reached the threshold.

"May the Force be with you, Master," he answered, disembarking the air taxi with Senator Amidala and Artoo in tow.

Absently, I gazed after their receding figures, ruminating. I wished I could believe my apprentice when he agreed to contact the Council or me before making any significant decisions. It wasn't that I was convinced that the young man was lying to me since I was certain that he intended to adhere to his orders. However, there was a noticeable gap between his noble objectives and his actions. He possessed the attention span of an exceptionally flighty glowbug, which meant that he could easily forget his pledge and jeopardize everything with his impetuous behavior.

"I hope he doesn't do anything foolish," I mumbled to Captain Typho, shaking my head after the fading shapes of Anakin, Artoo, and Senator Amidala.

"I'd be more concerned about her doing something than him," disagreed Captain Typho. The surprised look he shot me indicated that he, like many of the citizens in the Galactic Republic, imagined that every Jedi was a controlled and disciplined individual. Such beings did not understand that, while we had a definite hierarchy of command, we were not an army. Thus, a Jedi's discipline came from within, not from without, and Anakin had not mastered the invaluable knack of controlling himself that was the hallmark of a true Jedi. At any rate, odds were high that he would do whatever his heart and his instincts decreed regardless of the instructions he had received, and it would be a unique circumstance indeed if he hesitated to ponder about the potential repercussions of his behavior prior to lurching on ahead.

Then again, in all fairness to the captain, many of the plans that Senator Amidala had devised throughout the Naboo conflict in her efforts to liberate her people were as certifiably insane as any concocted by my Padawan. Like him, she didn't know the meaning of the word fear, or else didn't believe that anything horrible could happen to her, just as he seemed to be convinced that nothing could actually injure him. Together, they were quite a couple, I observed wryly on a grimace, and I could only hope that the universe would survive their reunion.

Captain Tyho, Dorme, and I watched mutely as the freighter took off. As the starship pierced through the Coruscanti atmosphere, I even stretched out in the Froce to ascertain that my Padawan and the Senator were indeed safely on board, because I had almost been afraid that Senator Amidala would convince my lovestruck apprentice to allow her to stay on Coruscant at the last moment.

As soon as I was confident that everything had progressed as smoothly as anything in this life ever could, I commanded the taxi driver to convey us back to the Ambassadorial District, where I parted company with the captain and Dorme at 500 Republica, where they would continue their dangerous masquerade, and went on to return to the Temple. Since I had promised the Senator that I would conclude this investigation as rapidly as possible, I wanted to get started right away. Besides, it was not as though I had anything more pressing or better to do.

Once I had arrived at the Jedi Temple, I hurried off to the Archives, where I managed to uncover a vacant analysis cubicle, even though the cubicles were busy with Jedi conducting research for hundreds of different missions dispersed throughout the Republic, just as they always were. As I settled myself in the chair in front of the analyst droid, I withdrew the toxic dart from the kit affixed to my belt that I was stowing it in and placed it upon the alloy sensor tray, educating the droid, "I need to know where this came from and who made it."

"One moment, please." As it established as much, the droid retracted its tray and began its work.

I waited patiently, staring as diagrams and other data scrolled swiftly past the droid's display screen as it rummaged through its catalogues, searching for a match to the designs and indents etched into the dart. Then, to my shock, the viewscreen went blank.

"Markings cannot be identified," the droid declared. "As you can see on your screen, the subject weapon does not exist in any known society. It is probably self-made by a warrior not associated with any known society. Stand away from the sensor tray, please."

While the analyst droid wrapped up this summary of the search results, the tray slid out again, waiting for me to remove the dart. Yet, I did not move so much as a pinky finger to collect the weapon.

"Excuse me. Could you try again, please?" I requested of the droid. Although it was possible that the assassin might have handcrafted his own weapon, I had the sense that this was not the case. Perhaps it was merely a byproduct of wistful thinking. After all, it would be nearly impossible to track down the assassin without attaining a specific planet to commence the investigation upon since it would take several of Master Yoda's life cycles to successfully search every world in the galaxy for the assassin, and by that time, there would have been no point in doing so, as both the assassin and Senator Amidala would be long dead. For that matter, so would I. Still, Jedi were taught to trust their instincts, and something told me that there was more to this dart than met the eye.

"Master Jedi, our records are very thorough," pronounced the droid, and, if it were sentient, I envisioned that it would have sounded offended at the suggestion that it had not checked everything adequately the first time around. "If I can't tell you where it came from, nobody can."

Frowning, I studied the toxic dart. No matter what a mutinous Anakin grumbled about my not being able to take a step without the Council's permission, more than a decade of tutelage under one of the most maverick Jedi the Order had seen in years hadn't been entirely lost upon me. Among the many useful things Qui-Gon had taught me was how and where to attain my information on a mission. When conventional methods failed, I knew how to navigate the back alleys of inquiry. I just preferred to employ traditional means of acquiring information first.

Despite what the analyst droid argued on the contrary, I thought that I knew somebody who could tell me the origins of the mysterious dart. Even if he didn't have the information, he would have a free steamed ardee for me, and even Jedi were permitted some indulgences. Yes, that settled it, then. It was time to pay Dexter Jettster, who was the sort of character that didn't grow on trees but rather swung under them, a visit.

"Thank you for your assistance." After snatching up the dart, I rose as I pocketed it. Half to myself, I observed, "I know who can identify this."

As I departed, the analysis cubicle, I could have sworn that I heard an incredulous sniff from behind me, which demonstrated beyond all rational dispute just how much Anakin's constant impertinence was straining me if I was starting to have hallucinations about analyst droids with attitude problems. Well, if I was going crazy, all my multiple personalities could attend group therapy together for a reduced fee. Still, I wasn't completely insane now, and I had a call to make on Dex.


	7. Chapter 7

Back Alleys and Dead Ends

At first glance, Dex's Diner seemed exactly like every other lower-middle level eatery in this blue collar sector of Coruscant. Shiny maroon booths, which were currently half-full of low income workers sipping stimcaf or blended fruit drinks during their lunch break while they ate salads and sandwiches and complained boisterously to their neighbors about their bosses and fellow employees, lined the walls, slick tiles coated the floor, and the counter that spanned along the far wall was covered in a glistening chrome. However, Dex's was much cleaner and had a noticeably fairer smell than most other such establishments that I had been in. Indeed, it was light-years better than the cantina I had been in last night in terms of safety, décor, and general hygiene, not that that was much of a compliment, given that most prisons were improvements upon the cantina I had seen yesterday evening.

Smiling slightly at the notion, I looked about the restaurant, searching for Dexter, even though his girth should have made him instantly apparent in any gathering. Not seeing him, I decided to approach a waitress droid, who was scrubbing a resilient splotch of some orange liquid off a nearby table with a moist towel. Her gleaming exterior attested to the fact that she was a recent acquisition of Dexter's, which was unsurprising since my old buddy delighted in purchasing the latest gadgets and technology. If she was indeed new as I suspected, that explained why the droid did not look familiar to me.

Obviously, she didn't recognize me, either, and out of the devotion programmed into all droids, she was initially reticent about honoring my request to see him, probably convinced that I was a creditor come to collect a debt or a sector police officer bearing the expense of legal trouble.

Only when I had assured her that my visit was of a purely personal nature and I brought no trouble for Dex, she hollered through the serving hatch into Dexter's kitchen, "Someone's here to see you, honey." Casting a dubious gaze upon my robes, which were starting to garner me glowers from the patrons of the diner who did not hold the Jedi in particularly high esteem because they perceived us as being too willing to champion the status quo and defend their corporate overlords, she lowered her voice and amended, "A Jedi, by the looks of him."

A cloud of steam and an enormous head poked out of the serving hatch, as Dex popped his face out of the kitchen long enough to shout out jovially, "Obi-Wan! Take a seat. I'll be right with you."

Grinning at this cheery greeting, I seated myself in a vacant booth. Reassured at last and switching from suspicious to servile as only a droid could do, the waitress droid rolled over to the bar, poured two steaming ardees, and carried the pair of glasses over to the table I had selected. Less than a minute later, Dex emerged from the sanctum of his kitchen, his jocund beam latched firmly in place.

"Obi-Wan!" he repeated, making his way across the room with tremendous speed for someone so portly. As he crossed over to me, I stood up to greet him, and found myself entrapped in a suffocating embrace with Dex's four arms slapping my back. Unfortunately, Dexter was one of those burly males who was not fully cognizant of his own strength at times. This led him to hug old friends with too much vigor, calling to mind the asphyxiating embraces of the giant snakes that inhabited numerous jungle worlds. All I could say was that I was glad that I was his friend. Someone with his muscle would be a formidable adversary, indeed. Once he deemed that we had greeted each other enthusiastically enough for his taste, Dexter squeezed his bulk into a booth, and I settled myself down across from him again.

"So, my friend, what can I do for you?" he inquired, gesticulating with all four arms at once, in the fashion that he always did when he was excited.

"You can tell me what this is," I replied, slipping the toxic dart across the smooth table to him, offering it to him for his examination.

For a moment, Dexter scrutinized the dart, rolling it about in his meaty fingers as he stared at it. Then, his eyes widened. "Well, whaddya know?" he murmured, as usual combining three or four words into one burst. "I ain't seen one of these since I was prospecting on Subterrel, beyond the Outer Rim."

I was silent for a few seconds, sipping my ardee and awaiting further clarification. When none was forthcoming, I pressed, "Do you know where it came from?"

"This baby belongs to them cloners," Dex informed me. "What you've got here is a Kamino Saberdart."

_Thanks, it's all as clear as swamp water now_, was my first thought. However, it was followed in rapid succession by the more gloating, _So much for 'If I can't tell you, nobody can.'_ Reminding myself sternly that Jedi did not gloat over their victories, I echoed, "A Kamino Saberdart? I wonder why it didn't show up in our analysis archive."

Actually, now that I considered the matter, it was disconcerting that there could be this void in the Jedi Archives when we prided ourselves as having one of the best collections of research material in the galaxy. Granted, it was a tiny gap, but it was still a hole, and even a minor crack in a dam could cause a flood if it was in the correct location.

"It's these funny little cuts on the side that give it away," explained Dex, jabbing a plump finger at the ridges on the sides of the dart as he spoke. "Those analyst droids you've got over there only focus on symbols, you know." Pleased with having outwitted the Jedi analyst droids, he remarked slyly, "I should think that you Jedi would have more respect for the difference between knowledge and wisdom."

It was the continuation of an old debate between us. Ever since I was fourteen and Qui-Gon had first introduced me to Dex, we had been waging this argument sporadically. It had all commenced when fourteen-year-old me had pointed out that he had a considerable number of apostrophes on his signs and menus that he didn't need to use, because he meant to employ a simple plural, not a singular possessive. He had retorted that "intellektuals is stupit" and, from then onward, had devoted himself to proving that experience trumped book-learning any day of the month. As for me, I had come to ignore his lapses in grammar, even though he had edited his signs and menus so that the unnecessary apostrophes marred them no longer.

"Well, Dex, if droids could think, none of us would be here, would we?" I reasoned in my most dry manner. After all, if droids ever did decide to utilize their cognitive programming imaginatively and without our consent, then they would realize just how shabbily they were treated in society. Once they recognized this, they would not only no longer serve us, but would probably dedicate themselves and their considerable cognitive abilities to overthrowing us, most likely in as bloody a fashion as possible, if the Federation battle droids were any means of judging. It was truly fortunate for all of galactic society that droids were programmed only to think how they were commanded to. The gifts of free thought, abstract thinking, and thinking outside the box had not been bestowed upon them when they were manufactured.

For a moment, we both had a laugh at the notion of senient droids revolting against us. Then, I sobered again, remembering that I was on a mission and eyed the dart again. It was from Kamino, which brought up a very important question: where in the galaxy was Kamino?

"Kamino. It doesn't sound familiar," I admitted as this occurred to me. "Is it part of the Republic?"

"No, it's beyond the Outer Rim," responded Dexter. "About twelve parsecs outside the Rishi Maze, toward the south. It should be easy to find, even for those droids in your archives." He paused, waiting for me to take the bait. When I didn't, he elaborated, "These Kaminoans keep to themselves. They're cloners. Damned good ones, too."

"Cloners?" I frowned, because while scientists in the Republic were able to clone replacement limbs for outrageous fees and were able to clone animals, we had not yet progressed to the point where we could clone sentients, since that still seemed anathema to us on a moral level. These Kaminoans must indeed be unique. "Are they friendly?"

"It depends." Dex gave a vague shrug.

"On what, Dex?" I demanded, leaning forward in my seat.

This time, Dex's smile contained only a grim, dark humor as he stated, "On how good your manners are…and how big your pocketbook is."

Maybe they aren't so different from us if how kindly you are treated there is a function of how much money you have, I noted, both relieved and disgusted. It seemed that all beings really were greedy at heart, no matter what culture they were raised in. Nothing could quite overcome the possessiveness evolution had coded into all organisms'' genome, apparently.

After that, the two of us exchanged news, but this jaded and accurate assessment of the nature of sentients robbed most of the pleasure from our conversation, and it did not last much longer. Less than fifteen minutes later, I had risen and had begun my trip back to the Jedi Temple to map out a course for Kamino. I hoped that I would discover a clue about who had ordered the female assassin to kill Senator Amidala there, and, since time was precious in this instance as it often was in my life, I had no wish to dally in this endeavor.

Ever since I had been an initiate even shorter than Master Yoda, the Jedi Archives had been among my list of favorite places in the Temple, because it was, paradoxically enough, simultaneously peaceful and busy. The silent banks of datapads stored more information than just about any other research center in the Republic. Therefore, no matter what hour of day or night, at least three or four consoles were always occupied with Jedi analyzing trends or searching for some key scrap of data that would aid them in their diverse missions.

Today, not only were several consoles in use, but about four or five Jedi were scattered around various tables in the center of the chamber, their brows crinkled as they contemplated printed materials from the Archives, since, even with all the information the storage droids had plugged into the datapads, some things still needed to be examined in their original forms.

It should have been a basic task, as Dex had claimed, to attain the coordinates for Kamino from the datapads, but, to my surprise, there were no records of the place. After wasting half an hour by fruitlessly searching the information banks for any reference to the blasted planet, I admitted to defeat and pressed a button that would summon one of the archivists to assist hopeless me. Then, aware that it would probably take some time for an archivist to come since they were all most likely helping someone else at the present, I stood up, stretched, and began to pace down the aisle, being careful not to disturb my fellow Jedi at their work.

Near the doorway, I halted abruptly. At first, I did not understand what had stopped me mid-step. Then, I realized that I was captivated by the bronze bust staring directly at me. The aisle I had strode down was lined with twenty statues like this― busts of the Lost Twenty, whose mute presence was both a homage to them and their achievements and a haunting reminder to everyone that some of our number had needs that our Order couldn't satisfy― but none was as enthralling as this one of Count Dooku. Something about the bust's commanding face with its slim, long, aristocratic nose compelled one's attention.

Gazing at the bust, which had been designed to resemble the features of Count Dooku as closely as possible, I sought some sort of insight into this enigmatic man― this leader of the Separatists who might very well plunge the Republic into civil war after a millennium of peace. How could a Jedi, even one who had left the Order, fall so far? Why had he left anyway?

I knew that he had left the Jedi Order shortly after Qui-Gon's final mission to Naboo. I had been off-planet at the time and overwhelmed with my new obligations as a Jedi Knight and Anakin's Master, and when I had returned to Coruscant, Dooku had left the Jedi, never to return to the fold. I knew nothing more about it, mainly because I had never inquired into the matter.

I was no closer to comprehending the motives behind Count Dooku's actions than unicellular organisms were to solving the conundrum of Unknowable Reality when I heard a slight coughing sound next to me. Pivoting, I spotted the Jedi archivist Jocasta Nu standing there. With her neat gray hair tied back in its taut bun and her thin face, she seemed deceptively frail in her robes. Most beings would never guess that she was anything more than a desk-bound librarian; however, I knew better. In her youth, Jocasta had been a blazing warrior, and, though she now spent most of her life organizing and searching the Archives in service of her fellow Jedi, she still occasionally went on missions. Besides, her tongue and mind, which were both so sharp they made vibroblades seem dull, were such that she deserved respect as a powerful ally and a worthy foe.

"Did you call for assistance?" she demanded more than a little pointedly.

"Yes." With some difficulty, I managed to wrench my eyes away from the statue as I answered. "Yes, I did."

"He has a powerful face, doesn't he?" commented Jocasta, her expression softening in understanding. "He was one of the most brilliant Jedi I have had the privilege of knowing."

This was not much of a shock since one would have to be acutely intelligent to manipulate so many star systems into joining the Separatist cause. The fact was that it required genius to entice lazy, grumbling malcontents to put in the effort it demanded to affect open rebellion.

"I never understood why he quit," I told her, figuring that now was as decent a time as any to learn more about Dooku's departure from our Order. Besides, as Jocasta was such a clever woman, I could assume her words were mostly accurate and that was a bonus. "Only twenty Jedi ever left the Order."

"The Lost Twenty," she whispered, and I could almost feel the ghosts of those misguided souls in her voice, "and Count Dooku was the most recent― and the most painful." Quiet descended upon us for a brief interval, and then she shook her head as if to clear some memory from it, finishing, "No one likes to talk about it. His leaving was a great loss."

If nobody liked to discuss it, there was only one method by which to discover more about it, I concluded wryly. "What happened?" I persisted bluntly.

"Well, Count Dooku was always a bit out of step with the decisions of the Council." Here, she paused to shoot me a glance that I could not decipher the Basic translation of. "Much like your old Master, Qui-Gon Jinn."

"Really?" I couldn't prevent myself from gawking at her. The idea was extremely discomfiting. Yes, I was aware that my Master had been a fiercely independent person who had no compunction about defying the Council whenever he judged it was necessary, a circumstance which occurred too often for my taste, but still I could never picture him leaving the Jedi― ever. As unconventional as he was, he was still a Jedi at the core of his being. He may have differed in his interpretation of the Code, but it meant everything to him. Therefore, he would never have left the Jedi. At least, I didn't envision that he would, but, then again, Qui-Gon had always been a surprise waiting to happen. Even now, I was not positive that I had ever comprehended the complexities of his nature entirely.

"Oh, yes," asserted Jocasta, and I forced myself to focus on her rather than my musings about my late Master. "They were alike in many ways: very individual thinkers, idealists." Her eyes riveted on the bust, she reflected, "He was always striving to become a more powerful Jedi. He wanted to be the best. With a lightsaber in the old style of fencing, he had no match. His knowledge of the Force was…unique."

For some reason, her analysis of Dooku's character reminded me of my Padawan more than it resurrected images of Qui-Gon in my mind. While my Master had been a talented swordsman and had his own view about how a Jedi should comply with the will of the Force, it was Anakin who possessed all the traits that Jocasta had ascribed to Dooku. Anakin had that same desire to be the greatest and the mightiest in addition to the individual outlook on the Force and prowess with a lightsaber. The notion of such similarities existing between Dooku, the ultimate fallen Jedi, and my apprentice horrified me, and I frowned as Jocasta sighed and turned her head away from the statue as if she could bear to affix her gaze upon it no longer.

"In the end, I think he left because he lost faith in the Republic. He always had very high expectations of government," she went on as she averted her eyes from the bronze bust. Listening to her, I rejoiced in the fact that, as a cynic, I had abysmally low expectations of government, which prompted me to celebrate whenever a committee or sub-committee managed to perform the elementary task of balancing a budget instead of prompting me to strike out on my own, harboring under the delusion that I could create a better government. "He disappeared for nine or ten years, then just turned up recently as the head of the Separatist movement."

I waited, but she didn't seem inclined to impart any more information upon me, so in the end I replied, "Interesting, but I'm still not sure I understand completely."

"Well, I'm sure you didn't call me over for a history lesson." Jocasta brushed off my remark briskly. "Are you having a problem, Master Kenobi?"

Gesturing at the datapad I had been employing in my futile attempts at finding Kamino, I explained, "Yes, I'm trying to find a planet called Kamino. It doesn't seem to show up on any of the Archive charts."

"Kamino?" she muttered, her forehead knotting. "It's not a system that I'm familiar with. Let me see." Together, we crossed over to the datapad, where she scowled at the screen I had drawn up for a moment, and then she questioned, "Are you sure you have the right coordinates?"

"According to my information, it should be in this quadrant somewhere― just south of the Rishi Maze." As I answered, I pointed a finger at the area I was referencing on the datapad.

"No coordinates?" demanded Jocasta, her frown deepening. "It sounds like the sort of directions you would get from a street tout―some old miner or Furbog trader." From the skepticism she did not even bother to pretend to conceal in her tone, she considered the information acquired from beings in such vulgar occupations as unreliable as a weather report attained from a meteorologist who had predicted that Mustafar was in imminent peril of freezing over.

"All three, actually," I conceded, unable to contain a grin as I reflected upon Dex's― to say the least― colorful career.

"Are you sure it exists?" Jocasta only seemed more incredulous after my confession of Dex's vocations.

"Absolutely," I maintained firmly. Dex had been so confident when he had identified the dart as originating from Kamino that I could not imagine that his memory was anything short of accurate, and Dex would never lie to me, especially when something pertained to a mission I was working on. Yes, Dex had a twisted made a roundabout appear straight by comparison, but he wasn't that perverse. Even Dexter's insanity had its limits, after all.

Narrowing her eyes, she scrutinized my expression for a moment longer. Then, apparently persuaded by the assurance she read therein, she bent over the datapad again. "Let me do a gravitational scan."

Her fingers flew across the keys. A second later, the screen display had altered, and she studied it for a minute or two before jabbing her fingers at a section on the read-out where Kamino should have been located. "There are some inconsistencies here. Maybe the planet you're seeking was destroyed?" she suggested.

That was possible, I observed mentally, my forehead knitting as I ruminated, but if that had been the case surely there would have been some notation about it― some article on the Holonet squeezed between the latest celebrity marriages and divorces or something. "Wouldn't that be on the record?"

"It ought to be," concurred Jocasta, "unless it was very recent." Here, she paused, shook her head, and declared bluntly, "I hate to say it, but it looks like the planet you're searching for doesn't exist."

"That's impossible." There was no way that Dex could have visited a non-existent world, and he wasn't prone to delusions or hallucinations of imaginary planets the last time I had checked. Besides, the assassin who had been assigned to murder Senator Amidala could not have been felled by a dart from a world that did not exist. I didn't know which was more disturbing: encountering this dead end in my investigation or discovering such blatant chasms in our famed Jedi Archives. "Perhaps the Archives are incomplete."

"The Archives are comprehensive and totally secure, my young Jedi," snapped Jocasta Nu, who seemed to interpret any hint that the Archives were anything less than the ideal research facility as a terrible personal insult since she devoted most of her existence to maintaining it and who had ignited faster than a dry field of grass when a blazing match was put to it in response to my comment. "One thing you may be sure of is that if an item does not appear in our records, it does not exist!"

Before I could devise any reply to this fiery assertion, she had stalked off to aid a Padawan, who was hovering tentatively between two nearby holobook shelves, obviously in need of assistance but hesitant to request help from the intimidating Jocasta outright. If felt a twinge of sympathy for the apprentice, who now was more likely to have her explode at him because of her exchange with me, and when she was in a temper, she could be as menacing as Mace Windu. Then, I returned to the crisis at hand.

If I couldn't locate Kamino in the Temple records, what should I do next? I wondered, staring at the star chart in front of me. Didn't those gravitational anomalies prove that something was in the area where Dex had claimed Kamino was? Yet, it could be anything from an asteroid belt to a star there, so it didn't necessarily have to be the planet Kamino where the gravitational irregularities were clustered.

This requires a great deal of thought, I decided, copying the map onto a portable display reader, shoving it into my supply kit, and heading toward the exit. Perhaps I should meditate on this issue. Since logic so far has failed me, I might stumble across the solution by not seeking it actively. At any rate, meditation would lower my general stress level, which would allow me to think more clearly about the Kamino problem once I emerged from my meditation if the answer to this mystery of Kamino did not come to me. Therefore, even if Kamino didn't directly resolve the problem, it might do so in indirectly, and it was something to do, anyway.

With this in mind, I headed off to one of the meditation chambers in the Temple, hoping to find illumination there.


	8. Chapter 8

Lost World

However, meditation accomplished none of the things I had hoped that it would. To begin with, my mediation endeavor did not commence auspiciously because it took me longer than usual to descend into the proper trance-like state of mind. Once I was there, the Force did not grant me wisdom or serenity.

Instead, it gave me doubts and anxiety by showing me a vibrant picture of Anakin and Senator Amidala, which was so detailed that I felt as if I were present as well and could stretch out a hand and touch anything in the scene. In the image, the pair of them, picnicking on a verdant plain on the beautiful planet of Naboo, weren't conducting themselves with the polite formality appropriate between a politician and her Jedi protector, nor were they behaving with the casual ease characteristic of friends. No, in my arcadian portrait, they were acting like two young lovers on their honeymoon with their head-tossing laughter, impossibly expansive beams, and adoring eyes that were just as wide. They were conducting themselves like beings who had just realized their mutual attraction and had not yet discovered how they would cause each other to go raving mad in a few years' time. Naturally, the sight of them behaving so filled me with massive amounts of concern.

Their love for each other was a doomed romance before it could even begin, if it really did exist as more than a figment of my overactive imagination. Anakin was a Jedi, and he was forbidden to engage in any erotic relationship, unless he wanted to be expelled from our Order, and he couldn't leave the Jedi, since a lackluster adherence to the Code was the only mooring he truly possessed― his only semblance or stability and structure in the tsunami of life. Without this anchor, he would plunge into the savage, teeming ocean and drown.

As for Senator Amidala, if it got out that she had a liaison with a Padawan, her political career would plummet faster than a turbolift deprived off its anti-grav supports. Suddenly, she would fall from being one of the most revered and sought after orators in the galaxy to a political pariah, whose old "friends" would no longer respond to her holocams and who could be booked to speak at pubs in rustic settlements on backwater planets for a handful of credits.

It wasn't so much that I cared about the fate of the astute, outspoken, and passionate woman I had met a decade ago during the Naboo crisis that I was already starting to regard with a certain nostalgia as transpiring in an era when the galaxy had been a simpler place, or at least I had envisioned it that way when I was ten years younger and stupider. No, my concern wasn't for Senator Amidala, or, at any rate, not just for her. My fear was for the Republic that I had sworn to serve and guard to my dying breath. After all, while I was convinced that she was as corrupt as the average legislator, because you didn't get far in politics if you weren't an amoral scumbag, most of the galactic population did not harbor a similar enlightened perspective. Rather, they judged that she was the most endangered of species: the honest statesperson. Thus, if the Holonet blared out that she had engaged in a relationship with a Jedi, the scandal that tainted her could disillusion the masses even more than they currently were, and that disillusionment was a luxury we couldn't afford with new systems rallying to the Separatist banner every day.

In short, Senator Amidala and my apprentice couldn't fall in love. Well, I supposed that neither of them could help doing that, but they certainly could control how they responded to their emotions. They couldn't indulge in their romantic desires, so they'd have to sacrifice them on the altar of the General Good, where so many dreams had perished most untimely. Sacrifice was the cornerstone of being a true sentient, after all. Surely they would recognize this.

For all her alleged naïveté, Senator Amidala had enough knowledge of the political sphere to comprehend the unholy power of the media and the damage they could do to a reputation. Besides, I couldn't even be confident that my vision was accurate, I soothed my fevered mind. My picture of them could just have been the inevitable byproduct of my troubled brain providing me with cheap entertainment by playing out my worst fears before my eyes to torture me.

Once this notion had crossed my mind, I devoted myself to erasing the image of Anakin and Senator Amidala frolicking on Naboo from my head. However, the picture obstinately refused to be banished, displaying a tenacity to rival the wills of either of its two main characters, Anakin or Senator Amidala. Finally, I conceded defeat, acknowledging that the omnipotent, capricious Force wasn't feeling charitable today, which was why it was not deigning to furnish me with any illumination through mediation. With a resigned sigh, I rose and departed the meditation chamber.

For awhile, I roamed down the corridors of the Temple, not conscious of where my feet were carrying me as I mulled over the mystery of Kamino's location in the universe. In fact, I still had no idea where I was headed until I found myself entering an exercise room filled with four-and-five-year-old looking initiates of all species. It was only then that I realized that I had unconsciously sought Master Yoda's aid in the Kamino problem, which was logical enough because the ancient Jedi had always been able to offer me the precise nugget of advice that I required to resolve any issue.

As I gradually became cognizant of my environment, I grinned. All around me, spaced evenly throughout the airy chamber, were younglings working on elementary combat practice. The objective was basic; they were supposed to block all the bolts, set to deliver a mild sting that injured the pride more than the body, which the training droids whizzing around them fired. The helmets they all wore denied them the benefit of natural eyesight and compelled them to reach out to the Force and trust it.

Seeing the initiates in training never failed to cheer me, because they reminded me of my own youth. When I gazed at them, I saw myself there with my clan. Life had been wonderful back then, when my worst fears had consisted of doing poorly on an exercise, and my greatest joy had been in making my buddies Garen and Reeft laugh, watching the ships that would one day (I hoped) transport me all over the galaxy, which I had innocently believed was a brilliant place, take off in the docking bay, or munching on a tasty snack. Those days seemed like they had happened to someone else a century ago, yet, paradoxically, I could recollect them vividly at the same time.

Therefore, I could practically mouth the words with Yoda when he instructed a faltering initiate girl, who had missed the last two bolts by a large margin and whose mounting exasperation was palpable in the Force, "Don't think. Feel. As one with the Force, be. Help you, it will."

The child he addressed relaxed and her next stroke deflected a bolt. Watching her success, I reflected that the lesson Master Yoda had just imparted on her was a difficult one for me, too. I was constantly thinking, questioning, evaluating, analyzing, synthesizing, and judging, so surrendering to my instincts presented a considerable challenge, since my brain was screaming at me that this was hardly the most prudent course. The fact that skeptical me also deemed it irrational to trust anything further complicated matters for me. Well, the satisfaction of being a Jedi was in the journey to becoming one with the Force, not arriving at the destination itself. As such, it was just as well that I was plagued by this problem, just as every other sentient had to contend with his or her own shortcomings.

I had just reached this conclusion when Master Yoda seemed to notice my presence for the first time, although I suspected that he had been aware that I was there the whole time I had been standing in the exercise chamber and had probably known that I was on a quest to find him before I had received the same memo from my brain.

"Younglings, enough," he pronounced, and the initiates powered down their lightsabers, and, after removing their alloy helmets, tucked them underneath their arms or equivalent appendages. "A visitor, we have. Welcome him."

Perhaps recognizing that he had assigned them the challenging task of greeting a man they were not acquainted with, he added to me, "Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, meet the mighty Bear Clan."

"Welcome, Master Obi-Wan," chorused the young boys and girls, bowing somberly. Even at their tender ages, the indelible signs of Jedi discipline were upon them, I noted. No other gaggle of younglings across the galaxy would be so serious, surely. A connection to the Force appeared to facilitate a sober worldview. After all, even our comedian, the mischievous and impudent Anakin Skywalker, was prone to bursts of brooding, and he was arguably the most unusual Jedi to join our Order in its millennium-long tradition.

I nodded at the initiates, but not wishing to waste any of their valuable time with Master Yoda, I spoke to him immediately, thinking that perhaps it would be best if I departed and requested his guidance at a more convenient moment. "I am sorry to disturb you, Master." Oddly enough, my feet hadn't been thinking when they magically transported me here.

"What help to you can I be?" returned Yoda, ignoring my comment. Of course he would assist me, because he would never turn away anyone who requested his advice. I might not be able to comprehend his words, but he would still give them to me. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same, I observed, remembering all the occasions I had looked to sage Master Yoda for his wisdom.

"I'm looking for a planet described to me by an old friend," I explained, detailing my dilemma as succinctly as possible. "I trust him, but the system doesn't show up on the Archive maps."

Although I knew that Yoda could spot the full implications of my remark from a kilometer's distance in the most obsidian night imaginable, he merely twitched his convoluted ears and informed his little pupils in a placid tone, "Lost a planet, Master Obi-Wan has. How embarrassing."

As I debated among my multiple personalities whether Yoda had intended to humiliate me by describing my plight as if I had misplaced a whole world that had been in my belt kit or if such a thing had only been the natural outcome of his insistence upon scrambling the standard order of sentences, several of the children smothered giggles. Obviously, they too had envisioned me misplacing a planet and found the notion humorous.

Apparently oblivious to the amusing nature of his statement, Yoda directed, "Liam, the shades." While Liam pulled down the blinds so that sun's rays no longer illuminated the chamber, the grandmaster of our Order stumped over to me, waving his cane about at the class as he noted, "An interesting puzzle. Gather, younglings, around the map reader. Clear your minds, and find Obi-Wan's wayward planet we will try. Bobby, the lights, please."

As a boy who was presumably named Bobby dimmed the lights, so that we were plunged into darkness, the initiates compliantly clustered about the shaft of the map reader. It seemed that this clan had never witnessed it in use before, since there were exclamations of surprised wonder when I withdrew the small glass globe that was the portable map record I had made of the area where Kamino ought to have been and placed it upon the top of the reader shaft. Their awed shouts were transfigured to delighted laughter when a three-dimensional hologram of the stars and planets in Kamino's sector sprang up, occupying a major segment of the room. The stars floating about in the chamber must have appeared very real to the young children, which explained why a few of them leaped up, striving to catch one of them in their hands. They were too young to comprehend that they could spend the rest of their existences reaching for stars and would still never be able to touch one.

To demonstrate where Kamino should have been, I walked into the hologram and stopped at its alleged location. "This is where it ought to be," I told them all, although I was still mainly addressing Yoda, "but it isn't. Gravity is pulling all the stars in this area inward to this spot. There should be a star here, but there isn't."

"Most interesting," mused Master Yoda. "Gravity's silhouette remains, but the star and all of its planets have disappeared. How can this be?" Gazing around at the congregation of young boys and girls, he pressed, "Now, younglings, in your mind what is the first thing you see? An answer― a thought? Anyone?"

At this juncture, a moment of silence ensued as everyone contemplated the Kamino conundrum, and the concentration of the little minds laboring on this riddle was so intense that I could sense it in the air. I doubted that their not fully developed brains would be able to solve the problem that Yoda had set them, and I was shocked when a boy raised his hand tentatively. When Yoda nodded at him, granting him permission to establish his theory aloud, he suggested, "Master, because someone erased it from the Archive memory."

"Yes!" chanted the other children merrily. Their enthusiasm at the success of their peer reminded me of how my own clan had been so supportive whenever one of its members worked out what we imagined at our tender age to be a particularly impossible problems. Clans were supposed to instill the Jedi morals of cooperation and devotion to something larger than oneself, and, apparently, the practice was still effective if these boys and girls were any method of judging. "That's what happened. Someone erased it."

The echoes of this proposal reverberating off the vaulted ceiling drove the idea home to me, and I gawked at the children. I had entertained the notion that the Archives were not as up-to-date as us Jedi liked to believe, but I had never considered that Kamino might have been wiped from the Archive memory. Surely, that was impossible, though. As Jocasta had insisted, our Archives had to be perfectly secure, or we would know that they weren't…

"If the planet blew up, the gravity would go away," declared a small, serious human girl, who must have interpreted my shock to mean that I didn't understand how Kamino could still exist rather than alarm at the idea of the Archives not being impregnable.

"Truly wonderful the mind of a child is," Master Yoda chuckled, and I wondered if he was pleased with the performance of his students or if he was amused by my expression. "The child is right. Go to the center of gravity's pull, and find your planet you will."

Still stunned, I numbly retrieved the portable map recorder from the reader. As I turned to go, I asked, "But, Master Yoda, who could have erased information from the Archives? That's impossible, isn't it?"

"Dangerous and disturbing this puzzle is," admitted Yoda on a frown. "Only a Jedi could have erased those files." Seeing my mouth open and knowing exactly what my inquiries would be, he added, "Who and why, harder to answer are. Meditate on this I will. May the Force be with you."

"May the Force be with you," I repeated with more feeling than was typical even among the Jedi, since I fervently hoped that he would discover the answer to these questions and that his meditation, therefore, would be more productive than mine had been, not that that would require much.

As I exited the chamber and started to walk down the hallway toward the docking bay, where I could board a starship and fly it to Kamino, I reflected upon my interaction with Master Yoda and the younglings.

Clearly, I still had yet to master the lesson Yoda had tried to teach that initiate girl about trusting her instincts, because something inside me had definitely whispered for me to travel to the center of the gravity well, but my logic had prevented me from doing so, because I had been afraid of discovering a black hole there or something. That was the marvelous thing about seeking advice from Master Yoda― he always provided multiple bits of instruction at the same time. Us Jedi were indeed lucky to have the benefit of his wisdom.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note: I altered the tour a little bit to paint the clones in a more sympathetic light, but it really is essentially the same thing, so I hope nobody minds terribly. I'm sorry if you do.

Clones and Kaminoans

When I entered the docking bay, I quickly arranged with the Jedi Knight on duty, Akash Ortzi, to burrow a starfighter for the trip to Kamino. I was just finishing with a final inspection of the craft, ensuring that everything was indeed in good order and the astromech droid, whose identification tag proclaimed that it was R4-P7, was correctly positioned in its circular rear compartment when Mace Windu came up to stand beside me.

His arrival was more than a little bit of a surprise, and was, therefore, disconcerting. After all, he was far too busy a Jedi Master with far too many crucial obligations to fulfill to squander even a second of his time biding farewell to Jedi embarking on standard, everyday missions. Perhaps he sensed that something momentous was about to occur that would somehow involve me. I sincerely hoped that this wasn't so, since Master Windu's premonitions had an aggravating habit of coming to fruition, and I would have been perfectly content if momentous happenings enfolded far from me, affecting other sentients. Well, whatever the Force willed would occur, and there was no profit in fretting about it. That's what I always told myself, anyway, although it had yet to successfully stop me from worrying. Fretting was what I did best.

"Be wary," remarked Mace Windu, as he appeared by my side, his swarthy face shadowed and even more solemn than usual. "This disturbance in the Force is growing stronger."

Not having anything to contribute to this grim assessment, I merely nodded. The Dark Side was indeed expanding around us, despite our best attempts to stunt its growth. At this rate, I suspected that some non-Force-sensitives would be realizing the perilous shift in the galaxy's scales of good and evil by next week at the latest. If it was Anakin's destiny to save the universe, he had better hurry up and do it. He should hurry slowly, though. Rushing into things was a massive mistake nine out of ten times.

Once again, images of Anakin and Senator Amidala laughing together, this time around a dinner table, swam about in my mind, as I contemplated the dangers of charging impulsively into situations. No matter what the Council asserted on the contrary, I still didn't think that my apprentice was prepared for this assignment of guarding the woman he loved.

Apparently, my discomfiture broadcasted itself to Master Windu in the treacherous Force, for he eyed me inquiringly, inviting me to explain what was troubling me. As his piercing glance settled upon me, I sighed. It would have been easier to detail what wasn't wrong at this point. That being established, I might as well just mention the thing that concerned me most, because there was no reason to bother a senior Council member with all my sordid issues.

"I'm afraid that Anakin won't be able to protect the Senator," I confessed after a moment's pause.

"Why?" Mace Windu's forehead furrowed as he mulled my comment over.

"He has― an emotional connection with her," I faltered, struggling to describe a phenomenon that was as clear as glass to me. Unfortunately, I was plagued with an inability to express my thoughts and feelings well verbally. Everything sounded much better in my head, where it belonged. I had to make it plain that it wasn't my Padawan's skills with a lightsaber that I doubted. His ability to fend for himself and others in a battle was the least of my worries. "It has been there since he was a boy. Now he is confused, distracted―"

"Obi-Wan, you must have faith that he will take the right path," interjected Master Windu sternly. I wondered if he really did comprehend the source of my unease, but I decided that there was nothing to be attained by beating a dead gundark. The Council had made up its collective mind, and there was nothing I could do to change it. I would just have to go with the flow, so I ought to cease grumbling about it. Those who do something because it is their duty are not unhappy since they choose to do so because of their conscience, I reminded myself sharply. It is only those who do something unwillingly because they are compelled to do so by others that are miserable.

Anakin would just have to survive this trial with Senator Amidala on his own as best he could, which couldn't be too awful, because what didn't break an organism could only strengthen it. Surely, my apprentice wouldn't crumble under this new pressure of a confrontation with his own flaming desire. After all, he had spent the first nine years of his life as a slave on Tatooine, and he had emerged from the experience astonishingly sane.

He'll be capable of selecting the proper path even if you aren't there to direct him to it, I reasoned to myself, as I swung myself into the vessel and punched the button that would close the glass canopy. After all, he's a brilliant pilot, and he'll probably be less likely to stray from the pathway if he picks it out for himself.

"May the Force be with you," stated Mace Windu as the protective cover slid shut, leaving me alone with my musings, which were not very pleasant company, unfortunately.

As I took off, I hoped that the Force would indeed be with me and all the other Jedi, for I had the ominous, foreboding feeling that nasty times would be assaulting us all soon, and we would require all the supernatural aid the Force could provide us with.

When I emerged from hyperspace, I discovered that Kamino, a planet so remote that most galactic cartographers wouldn't be able to come within a parsec of finding it on a bet, was, in fact, located right where Master Yoda's young pupils had predicted it would be. As I navigated my ship toward the oceanic world with its churning fathoms of silvery sea that dominated my viewscreen, I frowned.

To be completely honest to the one audience, oneself, that beings lied to most frequently, I had wished that the planet would not be found here. I had wanted there to be no such world as Kamino, so that this whole affair could have been a perverse hoax of Dex's, concocted so that he could have a chortle at my expense. Now that I could no longer pretend, even unconsciously, that Kamino had been a sick joke of Dex's, I recognized that someone really must have tampered with the Archives.

Yoda had informed me that only a Jedi could have deleted the files pertaining to Kamino, yet why would any Jedi wish to do so, and which Jedi had perpetrated the crime, anyway? Maybe it wasn't a Jedi, but who else could have purged all references to Kamino from our Archives? Who else had the access to our research facility necessary to do so?

That's not your problem, I snapped at myself. It's Master Yoda's headache now, not yours. Therefore, he'll solve the puzzle much faster and more accurately than you could ever dream to. Besides, you have your own riddle to answer. Remember that you have to track down that mysterious bounty hunter in the armor and jetpack.

I hoped to accomplish this feat quickly. The sooner I figured out who the bounty hunter was, the sooner I could ascertain who was behind the attempts on Senator Amidala's life, and the sooner I would be reunited with my troublesome apprentice. As such, I had no time for dawdling, and I must maintain my focus.

This reminder motivated me enough to request landing directions from the traffic control on the planet, a request which was responded to by a Kaminoan female with enormous eyes and skin so pale it was almost translucent who introduced herself as Taun We.

"You'll want to land at Tipoca City," she educated me in a polite but emotionless tone, which prompted me to ruminate upon whether she suffered from depression or if she was merely bored with her routine bureaucratic desk job. At least she minded her manners if she was bored, though, I noted and recalled Dex's warning about the Kaminoan species valuing politeness more than most sentients. "There's an open landing platform on the South Side. I'll transmit the coordinates."

Once I had received the coordinates, I took my time about landing, convinced that I should be cautious here, because Kamino's weather patterns created hazardous flying conditions. Owing to the fact that the planet's sun was a hotter-than-average star, and a majority of its surface was comprised of tumultuous oceans, the evaporation rate was high, and the water cycled through the atmosphere rapidly. In practical terms, this meant that gray clouds and rain enshrouded the world almost continuously.

Nice weather here probably refers to a day when there is no lightning and the wind is not blowing the pouring rain sideways into everybody's eyeballs, I observed inwardly, my mouth twisting wryly as I wrestled with the controls, steering my way through a storm cloud with some difficulty. A Jedi must always bear in mind that everything is culturally relative.

When the starfighter was parked on the alloy platform, perched upon stilts over the crashing sea, at last, I emitted a sigh of relief. Then, I donned my cloak, harboring under the delusion that it could shield me from the torrential downpour, or, that most likely failing, could permit me the merry illusion that it was affording me some sort of protection.

After that, I concluded that there was nothing to be attained from waiting as the raging storm did not appear as if it was planning on abating any time in the immediate future, and I lowered the ramp and fled across the wet landing pad as swiftly as I dared for fear of losing my footing on the slick surface. Finally, after what felt like a year's worth of running, I reached the far side of the platform and arrived outside a tower, whose slanting roof attested that the architects had realized that it was more prudent to accommodate rather than attempt to subdue the elements in the case of Kamino's pelting rainstorms. As I neared the structure, a door slid open electronically on well-oiled hinges.

Reflecting vaguely upon how fortunate I was not to be the one responsible for preventing those metallic hinges from oxidizing, I dashed inside, grateful to be out of the barrage of rain, which now only produced a staccato drumming upon the roof of the edifice I was inside. When I examined my surroundings, I spotted that the inner walls of the tower glowed a pristine white, illuminating the hallway with a cool, impersonal, and shadowless brilliance. The sudden, steady, and unnatural luminescence caused me to squint reflexively.

"Master Jedi, so good to see you," announced a soft voice to my rear that was barely above a whisper. Pivoting, I threw back my soaking hood, swiped the moisture away from my face, and saw Taun We awaiting me there. Our brief exchange over the viewscreen had revealed to me her distinctive features, but I had not registered how tall, slender, and frail she looked. Frankly, she seemed in danger of being knocked over by a powerful gust of air, and I assumed that she didn't venture outside much, not that there was much reason to do so on this planet, unless one happened to delight in sloshing through puddles or singing in the rain.

If her appearance was surprising, it was nowhere near as shocking as the genuine pleasure that I sensed flowing through her in the Force as she commented, "The Prime Minister expects you."

"I'm expected?" I echoed, staring at her blankly. Had someone alerted these beings that I was coming? If so, who and why? Was it the same being who had erased Kamino from the Jedi Archives?

"Of course!" she exclaimed, looking alarmed that I had not been aware of this piece of data. "He is most anxious to see you. After all these years, we were beginning to think that you weren't coming. Now, please, this way."

I have landed upon one weird world, I thought as I followed her down the glistening white corridors of Tipoca City. Are they a race of prophets, these Kaminoans? Is that why Taun We declared that they have been waiting for me to arrive for years? Yet, surely Dexter would have told me if they were blessed and cursed with precognition. That was certainly a relevant and memorable fact.

As I pondered this, my impression that Kamino was indeed like nowhere else in the galaxy was reinforced by the other organisms Taun We and I passed as we strolled through the labyrinth of halls that functioned as roads for this urban center. In addition to their singular features, Kaminoans sold a variety of technological devices, foods, and drinks that I had never stumbled across in my travels.

The Kaminoans went about their business with polite smiles, but they did not appear to engage in casual conversations with friends or linger to gaze wistfully at a tantalizing display of wares. It was almost as though they lacked joy or a zest for life, which might have explained the conspicuous absence of public sculptures or fountains.

I was no closer to unraveling the complex tapestry of Kaminoan society when Taun We bowed me into a spacious office off the corridor that served as a boulevard in this unique metropolis. The room possessed no windows, but, given Kamino's weather, that probably was a plus since it rendered the study less gloomy, and its walls glimmered with the same cool, bright sheen as the hallways. As we strode in, another Kaminoan, wearing a coronet that must have indicated his rank as prime minister, rose from his seat behind a broad glass-and-metal desk while Taun We introduced him as Lama Su, the Prime Minister of Kamino.

"I trust that you are going to enjoy your stay," Lama Su reassured me once the courtesies had been exchanged and I had taken a seat opposite him in a chair that had descended from the ceiling, much to my amazement. "We are most happy that you have arrived at the best part of the season."

If this was the best part of the season, I was glad that I was not Minister of Tourism on this world. However, remembering Dexter's advisement about manners, I forced a smile and nodded.

"You make me feel most welcome," I responded, satisfied with my ability to remain diplomatic and honest simultaneously, since I could not truthfully announce that I was charmed by the weather. Still, the Kaminoans were definitely making an effort to greet me warmly, and I had to acknowledge the favor.

"You will be delighted to hear that we are on schedule," continued Lama Su. Before I could ask for clarification about what timetable he was referencing, he elaborated, "Two hundred thousand units are ready with another million well on the way."

Two hundred thousand units of what exactly? "That is…good news," I affirmed, hoping through my puzzlement that this was indeed true, as I determined that these Kaminoans must have mistaken me for someone else. Someone who knew what they were yattering on about, and somebody who had placed an order for something the Kaminoans produced.

"Please tell your Master Sifo-Dyas that― we have every confidence that his order will be met in time," requested Lama Su, as I thought that the name Sifo-Dyas sounded familiar for some reason. The title "Master" would seem to reveal a Jedi. Yet, if Kamino didn't appear on our Archives, what contact could us Jedi possibly have had with its natives? None if this made any sense whatsoever. The universe must have twisted itself inside-out again while I was glancing the other way.

"I'm sorry―-Master…?" was all I could choke out through my bemusement.

"Jedi Master Sifo-Dyas." The Prime Minister's large eyes contracted suspiciously at my befuddlement, as though he imagined that I might be an impersonator or something. "He's still a leading member of the Jedi Council, is he not?"

"I'm afraid Master Sifo-Dyas was killed almost ten years ago," I answered slowly, still struggling to recover any semblance of my wits. Actually, now that I considered the matter, it might have been more like elven or twelve years ago, but I could have mixed up the years. I would have to add that to the ever-increasing list of questions to pose to Master Yoda when next we spoke.

"I'm sorry to hear that." As he established as much, Lama Su tilted his head in the fashion refined sentients did when they wished to convey that they shared the grief of another when, in reality, they didn't. His lack of true sorrow was clear when he switched the topic back to matters of commerce at once. "But I'm sure that he would have been proud of the army we've built up for him."

An army? Dexter had remarked that the Kaminoans were cloners. A million units, I calculated numbly, that's an army of a million clone troops, which would be enough to conquer the Republic if the clones were intended for the Separatists.

Swallowing hard at the notion, I inquired as delicately as I could, "Tell me, Prime Minister, when my Master first contacted you about the army, did he say who it was for?"

"Of course he did," Lama Su confirmed. "This army is for the Republic."

For the Republic? The impact of these three words sent me reeling as if someone had backhanded me. Even though I suspected it would be a futile endeavor, I battled to make sense of what I had just learned from Lama Su. Sifo-Dyas must have ordered this army at least a decade ago― about the same time that I had embarked on my last mission with Qui-Gon. Had Sifo-Dyas been able to foresee the Separatist menace even then and ordered the formation of this army to counter it? However, if he had, why hadn't he told any Jedi about it?

Before I could speculate into any answers to this enigma, Lama Su stood, declaring, "You must be anxious to inspect the units yourself."

You've no notion of how accurate that assessment is, I commented inwardly. Yet, aloud, I merely replied, "That's why I'm here." As if I hadn't come here in pursuit of an unknown bounty hunter.

My two Kaminoan hosts commenced my tour with the replication area, which was a surgically clean cavern made of polished durasteel and permaglass, and was lined with racks of embryos and fetuses that were growing in fluid-filled transparisteel spheres. When I realized that the Kaminoans were indeed capable of mass-producing clones as most sentients mass-produced landspeeders, my breath snagged in my throat.

"Very…impressive," I stammered when I had the oxygen necessary to do so. I had to be polite, after all, if I wanted to get anywhere with these beings, if Dex's assessment of them was accurate. Besides, what the Kaminoans had done was incredible from a scientific perspective, even if it was a far less spectacular feat from a moral standpoint. If one was willing to ignore how abhorrent it was to develop millions of babies in suffocating, hard, and cold transparisteel vats so that they could never know anything but constant warfare, what the Kaminoans were doing was a miraculous advance for science. Yet, I couldn't pass judgment on the inhabitants of Kamino. After all, to them science might be the highest power, and any progress in it would have been divine, no matter what it cost sentient life.

"I'd hoped you would be pleased," Lama Su pronounced, beaming proudly. His tone adopting a more pompous tone, he added as if he were an instructor hammering a particularly basic fact into the mind of a dull pupil, "They are unquestioningly obedient and will follow any command issued to them by a superior officer If you'll pardon my lack of humility, I believe this is the greatest art of genetic selection and manipulation that our scientists are capable of. A human is a naturally learning creature, but he is also by nature a violent, selfish, and undisciplined one. Thus, our researchers have been forced to tread the knife-edge between suppressing the factors that lead to disobedience and destroying that prized capacity for applying intelligence and aggression. However, if you'll forgive my arrogance again, I think we have achieved just that goal."

Listening to this, a shiver crept down the vertebrae in my spinal column. Lama Su was behaving as if we were discussing the merits of creating a certain hybrid plant, rather than conversing upon changing a person's genome to ensure unquestioning obedience.

Unquestioning obedience. Yes, that would be an officer's dream, since it would permit him or her to predict with one hundred percent accuracy how his or her soldiers would react. However, for the troopers themselves, I couldn't imagine a worse fate. I was all for disciple and respect for authority figures, and, for the most part, I thought that the rules ought to be adhered to. Yet, there were times when it was wrong to comply with an order for a logical or ethical reason, and the notion of being doomed to never recognize that this was the case because of an alteration in DNA rattled me. Suddenly, I was very grateful that my own Padawan had such a free spirit. After all, the way Lama Su spoke of the clones, he almost made them sound like human droids.

"Clones can think creatively, of course," resumed Lama Su as if he had read my mind. "You'll find that they are immensely superior to droids."

Despite my intentions not to be judgmental, I found a flare of ire rose in my chest when I detected the disparaging quality the Prime Minister's voice took on when he compared clones to battle droids. The clones were sentient, and they should not have been regarded as essentially meat droids. Sure, the Kamionans might be manufacturing them like droids, as loathsome as that was, but the clones were still people. I was positive of this fact, because I could feel it.

In each of the developing clones, I could feel the presence of the Living Force, just as it existed in every organism. Granted, all the fetuses and embryos had the same wrinkle in the Force, but it was still there, and that proved that they were sentient. If they were sentient, then they deserved the liberties that the rest of us enjoyed. It was as simple― and as complicated― as that.

I had no notion of how to express any of this aloud, and, besides, I doubted that my arguments would have persuaded the Kaminoans to alter their whole society and economy, so I remained silent as Lama Su and Taun We guided me into a classroom that at first seemed to be much life any other one would stumble across the galaxy over.

An instructor was standing in the front of the chamber, drawing a diagram on the board as he lectured, while his audience, which appeared to be comprised of ten-year-olds, copied down notes.

However, I had only been watching the lesson enfold for a handful of seconds before the differences between this class and any other in the known universe deluged me. First of all, all the pupils were identical, all possessing the same stimcaf skin coupled with obsidian hair and eyes. Even the curls on their heads seemed to be positioned in the exact same location.

Besides from the fact that everybody in the chamber, save the teacher, Taun We, Lama Su, and I, were more identical than monozygotic twins, there was an unnatural discipline that pervaded the place. No student was doodling, fidgeting, playing with a writing implement, creating a flimsi scrap starship, whispering to his neighbor, or doing anything else that might disrupt the flow of the lesson. In fact, I couldn't even discover one lad who appeared to be daydreaming. Force, even initiates at the Temple, as controlled as they were when compared to most of their peers in the galaxy, were not like this. The Kaminoans had already imparted military austerity and severity upon these youths, and that seemed horrible, because it looked like these clones, who would probably die in battle in a few years, had never even enjoyed a semblance of a childhood. There was undeniably something monstrous about that. A being had no right to deny millions of others opportunity to truly live.

Dazed, I looked around the classroom. It was as sterile, white, and bright as every other chamber I had encountered on Kamino. Numbly, I observed to myself that evil was supposed to be black. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

It was a moment before I realized that Lama Su was murmuring something to me about growth acceleration in clones. Wonderful. It wasn't enough to ruin the childhood of the clones. The Kaminoans had to speed it up as well, as if youth didn't fly away rapidly enough. Still, it wouldn't do me any harm to obtain a better comprehension of what Lama Su was prattling on about. After all, if I was ignorant of what he was babbling on about, I could hardly make a fair decision about him and what his people were doing.

With this in mind, I listened more attentively as Lama Su concluded, "Growth acceleration is essential. Otherwise, a mature clone would take a lifetime to grow. Now we can do it in half the time."

"These?" I could choke out no more as I gawked at the boys arrayed in desks around me. Surely these diligent, studious lads weren't five. They had to be at least ten. There was no way the human brain could allow beings who were so young to focus so well for such a lengthy period of time. It was impossible― as so much on this weird world was.

"They were started about five years ago," Lama Su educated me, obviously pleased by my speechlessness, assuming it was awe at his people's science, even though my amazement was tempered with horror.

Again, I stared about the room, and it was only then that I registered that the lecture was one about military campaigns in desert climates and how to camouflage oneself best in such arid environs. Blast it, these five-year-olds should be learning their alphabet and simple arithmetic, not complex military strategy. How could any knowledge, especially about violence, be so great that it justified robbing a person of half their lifespan?

Shaking my head to clear it, I followed Lama Su and Taun We out of the classroom and into a cafeteria. Here, hundreds upon hundreds of identical young men in various phases of development were arranged in ascending age order at long wooden tables. Gazing around at them, I could feel some of the unease coiled inside me relax, as I noticed that these clones conducted themselves like soldiers in any army from either spiral arm of the galaxy would.

Just like beings in every other army would, they were talking and laughing with their fellow servicemen as they ate the meals issued to them with cheery resignation. Even though it was odd to witness so many people chuckle, smirk, scowl, grin, and gesticulate in the exact same fashions, I still found it reassuring to see that these clones were capable of socializing with peers. At least they were able to enjoy perhaps the most important element of being sentient before they were killed in war. That had to count for something, although, admittedly, not much.

Then, I realized that all the clones were munching on dry ration cubes, which they washed down with swigs of water. While Jedi were sometimes compelled to consume such bland fare for days on end when we were on missions as most people pursuing a military career would have, at least when we returned to the Temple, we could eat normal food, and many times on missions, we could indulge in a treat at a café or a meal at a restaurant. Obviously, the clones were not allowed to enjoy any such luxuries. Instead, they must have been forced to consume ration cubes for every meal every day of their existences. Well, if that didn't prove how awful and monotonous their lives must be I supposed nothing could.

Perhaps discerning my interest in the food the clones were eating, Taun We explained as we departed the cafeteria, "Those ration cubes contain just the appropriate amount of nutrients for these units. Giving them any more would be a waste of funds, and giving them any less would put us in jeopardy of losing or damaging a product during their conditioning, and a different mixture might not contain the same nutritional balance, you see."

I nodded, because I did see all too clearly. It was apparent that the Kaminoans did not perceive the clones as being as sentient as they were. Instead, they regarded them as a standardized product that must be maintained for maximum profit. It was surprisingly easy to think with such casual pragmatism, I recognized suddenly while I trailed down the painfully pristine corridor to a balcony that Taun We announced would provide me with an overhead view of parading clones.

After all, beings, myself included, throughout the Republic treated droids with the same indifference. Nobody ever thought to ask a droid's opinion; it was just assumed that an astomech would help us in our spaceships, battle droids would fight for us, protocol droids would translate for us, archive droids would do research for us, and waiter droids would serve us when we commanded them to because we had bought them from some factory. Droids had no freedom, either.

Yes, I was aware that droids were not truly sentient, but some of them did seem to have a personality. At least, they deserved to be appreciated more, because, as it stood, despite their vast contributions to galactic society, droids were basically ignored, and there was something wrong about that. They deserved more respect than a tetrawave when it came down to it in the final analysis, and refusing to acknowledge this only diminished one's own self worth.

I would have to make a point of talking to that astromech, Arfour, that I had taken from the Temple with me more on our journey together, assuming that it was a conversationalist, of course, I resolved, as my two tour guides paused outside the door that fed onto the terrace that looked out over the training grounds of Kamino.

Both Taun We and Lama Su waited patiently while I yanked up my hood again. Then, the three of us stepped out onto the veranda and leaned out over the balustrade as we watched as battalion after battalion drilled below us. Their movements when they drew, aimed, and fired their weapons were crisp, confident, and perfectly coordinated with one another, and when they marched they moved as one massive unit. Truly, they might indeed have been the best army the galaxy had ever produced, simply because they had reflexes that were absolutely synchronous due not only to impeccable training but also thanks to having identical genes. Nature and nurture had collaborated to create this unstoppable force….that answered to the Jedi.

Yet, Jedi didn't lead armies, for Force's sake. We didn't even take sides in wars or other conflicts. Rather, we labored to keep the peace by ensuring that the laws of the Republic were followed. While we might have to resort to using our lightsabers when necessary, we would never lead men into battle.

Staring down at the seemingly infinite lines of clones marching below me with such uniformity and precision, I wished fervently that Master Sifo-Dyas were alive to explain his rationale to me because I had no hope of understanding his logic.

"They're magnificent, aren't they?" demanded Lama Su, eyeing the parading clones with the smugness of an organism who was gazing down at a great power that he had formed that was so far beyond his understanding that he didn't even recognize how dangerous it was due to his tremendous ignorance.

Slowly, I nodded, feeling as chilled and as disconcerted as I would if I were on Tatooine and a blizzard had struck. There was no point in debating this point, since the clones were an incredible thing from a military perspective, but from a Jedi's view, they were terrible.

"You'll find that they are totally obedient, taking any order without question," Lama Su reassured me. Possibly he had spotted my discomfiture and assumed that I was wondering what would happen to me or another Jedi if these skilled soldiers abruptly snapped and decided to commit mutiny. "As I said, we modified their genetic structure to make them less independent than the original host."

"Who was the original host?" I inquired as if the question was merely a curious one of minor import, although I sensed that this wasn't the case. Somehow, the Force was whispering to me that the host from which these clones were culled was a quarry which I wanted to pursue, because this being would have considerable implications for my mission.

"A bounty hunter called Jango Fett," responded Lama Su readily. As he answered, he, Taun We, and I strode back inside. I was not sorry to leave the drilling clones behind. However, my discomfort returned when the Prime Minister went on, "We felt a Jedi would be the perfect choice, but Sifo-Dyas handpicked Jango Fett himself."

I resisted the temptation of noting aloud just how perilous it would be to have an army of Force-senstive clones roaming about the galaxy because I was certain that I was on the correct path if this Fett was a bounty hunter. Perhaps now the pieces in the holopuzzle of who had been behind the assassination attempts on Senator Amidala would fall into place. My apprentice would be delighted.

"Where is the bounty hunter now?" I pressed, trying to maintain my offhandedness since I didn't want to raise the Kaminoans' suspicions. If they warned Fett that I was here, that could ruin everything.

"He lives here, but he is free to come and go as he pleases," Lama Su informed me. Leaning forward, he added in a conspiratorial voice, "Apart from his pay, which is considerable, Fett demanded only one thing: an unaltered clone for himself― a pure genetic replication with no tampering with the structure to make it more docile and no growth acceleration. Curious, isn't it?"

"Yes. I would like to meet this Jango Fett," I persisted, thinking that I would actually like it very, very much. I filed the information about him wanting an unaltered clone away in the back of my mind in case it was useful later. Truth be told, I was as confused about Fett's motives in demanding such a term from the Kaminoans as Lama Su was. What benefit was a young clone to a bounty hunter?

Well, determining the answer to that wasn't my mission, I reminded myself. I had only just refocused on the present exchange when Tuan We murmured, "I would be most happy to arrange it for you."

Good, I thought as the tour concluded, and the two Kaminoans escorted me to sleeping quarters that they had prepared for me. Meeting this Fett will be an interesting social call indeed.


	10. Chapter 10

Tracking Exercises

Night on Kamino did little to alleviate the dreariness that seemed to encircle the wet planet along with the rain and the stormclouds. The water pelting the transparisteel windows did not cease or even slow its assault. In fact, the rain slamming into the windows was quickening its tempo as the storm increased its intensity. Jagged forks of lightening pierced through the atmosphere that was now as black as deep space, instead of the dull gray of old grain mush, and resounding claps of thunder, following seconds behind at the speed of sound rather than light, broke upon my ears in a near constant onslaught.

Desiring to block out at least the sight of the thunderstorm, I pulled down the blinds, changed into the pajamas I stowed in my supply kit, and switched off the glow lights. Then, engulfed in darkness, I wrapped the white shimmersilk covers around me and tried to fall asleep on the sleep couch the Kaminoans had provided me with, which was a bit too long and thin for human anatomy and comfort.

In what felt like a fruitless endeavor to plug my ears against the noise of the storm, I buried my head in the mountain of pillows, wishing fervently that I were thirty years older and deaf enough that the thunder wouldn't be so blasted loud. As I mentally cursed Anakin for giving me gray hairs but not rendering me hard of hearing, I made a note to myself to purchase sonic dampners and add them to my supply kit, since, as the present situation illustrated quite eloquently, one could never know when such devices might come in handy. However, I wouldn't buy any sonic dampners for my Padawan, because I was willing to gamble any of my scant possessions that they would be utilized for the invaluable purpose of shutting me out, and, frankly, he really required no aid in tuning me out, as he was an expert at doing so.

This conclusion having been reached, I rolled over, almost toppling off the narrow sleep couch, and drifted off to sleep, relieved to do so for the first time since I had arrived on Coruscant after my mission to Anison.

Midway through a typical dream of Anakin navigating a hijacked speeder at full throttle down a lane of traffic, all of which was hurrying in the opposite direction, with me clinging desperately to the side of the vehicle, struggling to recall how to breathe so I could yell at him to stop, I jolted upright in my sleep couch.

For a minute, I stared about the black chamber without seeing it as the Force swept through me, charged with more electricity than the lightening bolts dancing through the sky outside. The sensation of death, of the sudden withdrawal of life draining through the Force like liquid poured out of a tub once the stopper had been removed, washed over me. It was succeeded by numb denial at the loss of someone who couldn't possibly perish, then grief as a comprehension of what had been taken away settled in, and finally a helpless fury at oneself for being one millisecond too late to prevent this atrocity, a rage that must be released somehow or it would surely burn the one who harbored it to cinders― a powerful emotion of blame and self-loathing that had to be displaced to others in order to keep the one who felt it from destroying himself. After that, I felt nothing, just a void in the Force that bound all life, good and evil, smart and stupid, together.

A rim of sweat formed on my forehead, and I frowned. The feelings that the Force had imparted upon me had a definite signature of Anakin Skywalker about them. I was positive that it wasn't my apprentice that had passed away because the death waves that had crashed over me were not strong enough to indicate that the Chosen One had perished. Besides, if he had passed away, the emotions would have been chopped off, as dead people did not experience grief or wrath. Thus, it must have been someone else who died― somebody close to Anakin. Somebody like Senator Amidala, for instance.

The notion sent a pang through me that was alarming in its poignancy. It wasn't just that I was distraught at the idea that she could have died when my apprentice and I had been responsible for protecting her, which meant that we would have failed in our mission, or that I was upset at the prospect of losing a talented orator who was instrumental in keeping the Republic from shattering into shards like permaglass when a fist punched through it. No, I found the notion of her perishing devastating on a personal level.

Put simply, I didn't want Padme Amidala to be assassinated because I liked her far better alive than dead. She was clever, brave, resolute, and, as much as I hated to admit it, seemed sincerely interested in serving those who had elected her and the Republic as a whole. Who knew? She might truly have regarded ensuring the common welfare of the citizens of the Republic as her duty, and one thing even her worst detractors could not deny about her was that she always fulfilled her obligations, however challenging they were. All in all, she was the closest a politician could come to being a decent sentient. Actually, she might even have been one.

Yet, only the Force had the ultimate control over who lived and who died, and if it willed her to perish now, it would happen. Such was life, or death really, given the context. A Jedi accepted that and moved on.

When I shoved aside my emotions about the issue of Senator Amidala dying, I contemplated it from an objective standpoint with the appropriate amount of academic detachment. Doing so, I reasoned that it was improbable that Senator Amidala had suffered the most extreme type of censorship, assassination. After all, it was Anakin's responsibility to defend her, and it was as likely that Hoth would become renowned for its tropical resorts or that Jar Jar would become a specialist in sub-atomic particles that my Padawan would leave her side long enough for anyone to launch an attack and murder her. Anyway, even if she had died, my apprentice would have the presence of mind to comm me, since he had memorized my frequency by now…

No, it must have been someone else who was killed, but whom? I considered locating my comlink and calling Anakin to discover who exactly, but I dismissed the plan. He was no longer a ten-year-old who required constant babysitting. Therefore, if it was crucial to the mission or if he needed assistance, he would seek my counsel. If he didn't contact me, I should assume that he was in control of the situation. Trust was an integral component of the Master-Padawan relationship, and adolescent boys needed space to grow into men, after all.

The next morning, after I had breakfasted on an orange fruit that resembled but tasted almost entirely unlike muja, I joined Taun We in the gleaming, pristine corridor outside my room so she could escort me to Fett's domicile. As she had yesterday, she guided me through the peculiar byways of Kamino until she halted outside the wide door panel that led into one residence, which I presumed from her stopping was Jango Fett's.

While Taun We announced our presence, I reminded myself of the route that I traveled to reach the bounty hunter' s home and memorized the locking mechanism affixed to the apartment door. Doubtlessly, that information would have its functions in the imminent future.

A boy of about ten answered the door, and I blinked, taken aback although I ought not to have been. The youth had the same curly dark hair and obsidian eyes as the boys I had seen having battle strategy hammered into their heads yesterday, but his manner was somehow less― regulated. He would grow up to be as lethal as the clones, but he would never be half as manageable as them, I sensed, because he clearly would never abide by anyone's commands. This must be Jango Fett's unmodified clone, I recognized as I studied this militant youth.

"Boba, is your father here?" inquired Taun We in the soft, dispassionate voice that Kaminoans appeared to constitute as a necessity for every polite exchange.

The lad, whose name must have been Boba, nodded in response, but his eyes were riveted on me suspiciously. Obviously, he had seen Taun We frequently enough for her to not register as a menace on his radar. However, the same did not apply to me. I was a stranger, and unknowns were never welcome at bounty hunter lairs.

"May we see him?" Taun We persisted in the same respectful yet distant and expressionless tone.

"Sure," mumbled Boba, his features still wary. Despite his concession, he remained in the threshold, barring our path, for a half a moment longer before stepping aside and permitting us to enter a modest apartment.

Glancing about me as I strode into the residence with Taun We, I was shocked by how normal it seemed. It was meticulously organized with not so much as a holobook on the living room shelf positioned in the wrong location, furnished, and reasonably comfortable-looking. Yet, it revealed nothing about its two inhabitants.

Even though Jango must have resided here for at least a decade, there were no personal items strewn about the apartment. Not even Boba had toy starfighters piled on the floor or in a corner. In fact, the quarters that Jango Fett occupied with his son reminded me of the sterile hotel rooms that beings could rent on Coruscant, where, with the hundreds of diverse species passing through every day, those spaces were designed to be nothing more than clean and inoffensive.

Of course, there was a practical reason for the impersonal quality of Fett's domicile. Jango Fett was a bounty hunter and it dawned on me that, since he could never be certain when one of his legions of enemies would spring up to assail him here, he would have to be prepared to leave here in a rush. As such, the fewer personal items he possessed, the fewer he would have to pack in an emergency, and anything he accidentally left behind wouldn't be too revealing.

"Dad!" Boba hollered as I reached this conclusion. "Taun We is here."

At his shout, a man sauntered in from the next room over. Though he was instantly recognizable as the father of the clones because of his hair, face, and body shape, he moved with an assertiveness the clones could never hope to match. Such a strut could only come from freedom and the assurance that one always selected one's own road, no matter what anybody said. A scar marred one side of his face, but even without it he would have emitted an aura of fierceness and savagery that the clones, as deadly as they were, would not have been able to cultivate in their sparkling white armor. As he strode in, he nodded a curt greeting at Taun We while scrutinizing me with narrowed eyes that showed he already perceived me as a threat and was calculating how to handle me.

"Welcome back, Jango," Taun We stated in her lilting fashion, ignoring the terse salutation from our host. "Was your trip productive?"

"Fairly." Jango's taut reply demonstrated that he would not have been distressed if the conversation terminated at this juncture. Although he addressed Taun We, his eyes remained locked upon me.

"This is Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi," continued Taun We, impervious to the bounty hunter's bearing because she had obviously posed her question only out of a habit of politeness and was as interested in the response it generated as serial killers were in aiding their victims. "He's come to check on our progress."

"Is that right?" This might have been a standard useless remark issued by organisms engaged in a conversation when they felt that they had been quiet for such a lengthy period of time that they ought to make some comment to display that they were still listening, if it hadn't been for the skeptical expression etched on the bounty hunter's face as he demanded as much. His frigid tone, which was as cold as durasteel sheathed in ice, also implied that this was not a pleasant rhetorical question.

"Your clones are very impressive." As I established as much, I tried a disarming smile. The last thing I wanted was to raise the hackles of this particular alpha akk dog. "You must be very proud."

"I'm just a simple man trying to make my way in the universe, Master Jed," declared Jango. His words could have been constituted as humble if it weren't for the irony laced liberally into them. Plainly, he did not judge himself to be an ordinary being, as his statement might seem to suggest, nor did he seem to regard himself as being inferior to the Jedi in anyway. In fact, he appeared to perceive himself as superior to the Jedi.

"Aren't we all?" I countered, pretending to not notice his sarcasm and electing to be philosophical rather than combative.

Through the ajar door behind the man I spoke with, I spotted some metallic body armor resting on the floor of the adjacent chamber. However, before I could get a better look at it, Jango shifted casually, obstructing my view without seeming to be cognizant of this fact, though I suspected he was fully aware of what he was doing.

"Ever make your way as far as Coruscant?" I pressed, striving to act as though it were an offhand inquiry of no real significance while I tilted slightly to one side, hoping to gain a better vantage of the armor.

"Once or twice," Jango educated me, shrugging as he moved again, concealing the armor.

"Recently?" I pursued, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"Possibly." Jango offered another enigmatic shrug.

"Then you must know Master Sifo-Dyas," I asserted, as if it was a logical conclusion because naturally all sentients who may or may not have visited Coruscant recently would be acquainted with such a being, because Coruscant was such a small and sparsely populated world. It was a cosmic non sequitur, but those had the knack of knocking beings off balance, and Jango was the sort of opponent whom it was best to push off his center of gravity before he did it to you.

At this point, Jango snarled an order at Boba in a language I thought was Mandalorian, and as the boy presumably complied, closing the door to the next room, he leered at me triumphantly before repeating blankly, "Master who?"

"Sifo-Dyas," I reiterated. "Isn't he the Jedi who hired you for this job?"

"Never heard of him," pronounced Jango, and my brow furrowed at this puzzling datum. Surely if, as Taun We had explained earlier, Sifo-Dyas had handpicked Fett as the source for the clone army, then they would have had to meet at some time. So, what did Fett hope to acquire from lying about this? "I was recruited by a man called Tyranus on one of the moons of Bogden."

This was a rather elaborate fib, and I expected someone whose livelihood entailed practicing the morally dubious career of bounty hunting to comprehend that unadorned lies were the best ones because they were easy to keep track of, thereby reducing the odds that they would be contradicted by one's own big mouth. Therefore, I probed his aura gently in the Force, careful not to alert him, and discovered nothing to indicate that he was telling a falsehood.

What did that mean? That Sifo-Dyas had employed an alias when he rendezvoused with Fett? If so, why? To prevent someone from tracing the clone army back to the Jedi Order until it was complete?

"Sifo-Dyas told us to expect him," chimed in Taun We, observing my bemusement, and trying to alleviate it although her words only served to elevate it. "And he showed up just when your Jedi Master said he would. We have kept the Jedi's involvement a secret until your arrival, just as your Master requested."

"Do you like your army?" Jango questioned me, the spite in his tone as subtle as a whack across the face.

"I look forward to seeing them in action," I returned, thinking that two of us could spar in this verbal fencing.

"They'll do their job well." A twisted grin curled on Jango's lips. "I'll guarantee it."

From the parading soldiers I had watched yesterday on my tour, I would not dispute this assertion. Anyway, examining Jango Fett, whose name probably appeared in the Dictionary Galatica as the definition to the word "warrior," I doubted that anyone produced solely from his genes could be anything less than formidable in the battlefield, and, by the appearance of it, the Kaminoans were skilled cloners. As such, it was reasonable to expect that the clones would be a fearsome force.

We were also fortunate that Jango seemed to be a sharp man, which meant that his clones wouldn't be dumb. That could only be an asset when they were utilized―but they never would be employed. The tenuous negotiations with the Separatists would not collapse and compel the Republic to engage in its first civil war…

"Thanks for your time, Jango." Yanking my mind away from such ruminations, I bowed my head cordially to the bounty hunter I had been swapping barbs with for the past five minutes. I was ready to depart because I had learned all I could from here. Fett had been on Coruscant, and recently if his aversion was any indicator, and the armor in the back room bore an uncanny resemblance to the one that belonged to the being who had killed the woman who had attempted to kill Senator Amidala. It could have been coincidental, but this wasn't a court, and he would have an opportunity to prove his innocence if he was ever put on trial. Now, though, wasn't time to take him into custody. Taun We was watching, and that would only raise her suspicions, which was a complication that I did not require.

"Always a pleasure to meet the Jedi," Jango snorted derisively as Taun We and I left. As the pair of us departed, the door slamming in our wake, I wondered at Jango's hostility. It had a personal flavor that was more than the rogue's detestation of the law enforcer.

As Taun We led me through the thronging hallway boulevards of Tipoca City back to Lama Su's office, where I could express my gratitude to the Kaminoan people for their hospitality and bid a formal farewell to the Prime Minister, I sought a solution to this riddle. Then, when we were halfway to Lama Su's study, the answer smashed into my brain with the velocity of a racing speeder bike plowing into a skytower at ninety kilometers per hour.

Judging by his armor and the language he had addressed Boba in, Jango Fett was a Mandalorian. What remained of his race, which now survived in diaspora, loathed the Jedi with a passion that blazed hotter than Kamino's sun. They blamed us for the near extermination of their people and culture. On Galidraan, many years ago when I was still a Padawan, in the middle of a snowy winter, a group of Jedi and the Mandalorian army had clashed, because, as we uncovered later―too late for the Manadolorians― the Mandalorian army had been framed by the corrupt Galidraan governor. We didn't cross check our sources as well as we should have because Mandalorians did not have an enviable reputation in the galaxy. The fact that they were bounty hunters and mercenaries with a history of allying with the Sith meant that they were the recipients of a social stigma to rival that endured by Hutts, who were nefarious for their connections to Black Sun and other criminal undergrounds. It hadn't been a massacre what the Jedi did on Galidraan since the Mandalorians had been far for defenseless and had accounted for the deaths of numerous Jedi. Still, it had been a dark hour for us Jedi, and, when he had heard about it, Qui-Gon had actually shown anger in front of me. That was a rare enough occurrence to leave an impression upon me.

Well, Jedi make mistakes like all other sentients, and we never claimed to be perfect, I reminded myself as Taun We and I entered Lama Su's office and I latched a pleasant grin upon my features. We just serve the Force and the Republic as best we can. That's all anyone can expect of us.

After I had completed my formal farewell to the Prime Minister, he and Taun We insisted upon leading me back to my transport, and, since I wasn't positive about where my vessel was parked in relation to everything else on Kamino, I accepted their offer thankfully. Once they had escorted me back to the platform where my starship was awaiting me and I had exited the corridor and started making my way over to my vehicle, I realized that, happily, the rain and wind outside were even worse that I recollected. Attempting to ignore the battery of precipitation, I drew my cloak tightly about me.

When I reached the transport, I asked Arfour to set up a communication to Master Yoda and Master Wind at once since they needed to be made aware of my discovery, and I required their instruction. The situation was much too complex to risk blundering now, I remarked inwardly as a whirring Arfour obeyed my directive.

Within a moment, the astromech droid had linked me to the Temple, although the holocam signal was weak, owing to Kamino's horrific weather. Once a connection had been established, I rapidly related my tale, so that I could finish it and receive their advice before the communication sputtered out entirely upon us.

"Do you think that these cloners are involved in the plot to assassinate Senator Amidala?" Mace Windu wanted to know when I completed my report, his forehead wrinkled in deep concentration.

"No, Master," I informed him. I had sensed no malice from the Kaminoans, just a polite indifference, and assassinations did not seem to be consistent with their character, because murder was far too vulgar and emotionally tinged for them. Besides, I didn't understand what they could attain from a dead Senator Amidala, and, if the Kaminoans decided to kill, they would definitely do so for rational reasons. They were all mind and no heart. "There appears to be no motive."

"Do not assume anything, Obi-Wan," reproached Yoda. "Clear your mind must be if you are to discover the real villain behind this plot."

"Yes, Master." I accepted the reprimand, and then plunged on, seeking their input on a matter than had been plaguing me since my initial conversation with Lama Su, "They say a Sifo-Dyas placed the order for the clones almost ten years ago. I was under the impression that he was killed before that. Did the Council ever authorize the creation of a clone army?"

I did not have a habit of prying into the affairs of the Council having more than enough of my own problems to contend with, but this had some bearing on my mission, and I was convinced that I had the right to inquire in this case. If they disagreed, after all, they could just tell me it was none of my business.

"No," Mace Windu responded decisively without even glancing over at his fellow senior Council member. "Whoever placed that order did not have the authorization of the Jedi Council."

When I heard this, I was amazed by the depths of relief that rippled through me. It would have been dreadful if the Council had commanded the formation of an army, nonetheless one of clones who were destined to know no liberty, squander their whole existences (generously made half as long by the courtesy of Kaminoan genetic alteration) in war zones before being slain fighting another man's battle. Even the notion of this nauseated me.

"Into custody take this Jango Fett," Yoda ordered, his voice dragging me back to reality. "Bring him here. Question him, we will."

"Yes, Master. I will report back when I have him," I assented, switching off the holocom.

Arrest Jango Fett, seasoned bounty hunter, there was a feat easier to discuss than perform, I thought as I headed back across the landing pad and into Tipoca City. Well, Jedi existed to accomplish the impossible for the general good of society, which rarely thanked us for our considerable efforts, not that we served for praise. Still, an occasional thank-you would not have been amiss…

I was favorably surprised by how well I recalled the route to Fett's apartment, which I was equally delighted to reach without incident. When the door to Jango's residence glided open at my touch, I knew at once what I would discover within, and when I stepped in to search for any clue as to where Fett had fled with his child, I saw that the quarters were no longer neat. Empty drawers hung open like the gaping maws of the ravenous monsters in Naboo's core, and the handful of personal items that had been present earlier had vanished, as I had anticipated.

There― that was what I was looking for. Upon catching sight of the datapad built into the wall, I briskly crossed over to it and tracked down through Kaminoan records the platform where Fett kept his craft, which I learned was named Slave I, a fitting epithet for the transport of a notorious bounty hunter.

To my relief, I discovered that the ship had not disembarked yet, and I accessed a map of Tipoca City, which I employed to find the shortest pathway to the landing pad where Jango parked his vessel.

When I arrived at my destination, the Fett father and son were still loading their starship with Jango handing luggage crates up to Boba. Since Jango had donned his body armor and jet pack, I could discern that it was indeed he who had murdered the other bounty hunter outside the cantina.

The senior Fett had his back facing the door, and, hoping to catch him off guard, I charged forward into the barrage of rain. However, as usual, luck was not with me, and the boy detected my presence, and warned, "Dad!"

Pivoting, Jango reflexively pulled out his blaster. Just in time, I whipped out my lightsaber and parried the bolt. By then, I was almost atop my adversary, and I swung my weapon at him.

"Boba, get on board!" barked Jango, and the lad dashed past us up the ramp into Slave I. I had to admit that I was astonished by my foe's compulsion to shield his offspring. Frankly, he didn't fit the archetypal role of doting or overprotective dad. Then again, Mandalorians had a strong code of honor, even though it was noticeably different than that of most beings in the galaxy, and protecting the young Mandalorians, the future of the militaristic and nomadic culture, might be a key element of it.

My mind was wrenched back to the combat between Jango and me when the bounty hunter triggered the rockets of his jet pack, and propelled himself into the air, dodging my latest blow.

When Jango flew over my head and landed behind me, I spun around to confront him. Like a predatory feline, my enemy circled around me, lobbing toxic darts at me. Mirroring his every move, I deflected the darts, but, though I aimed every one of them back at him, he evaded a majority of them, and the ones he failed to avoid ricocheted harmlessly off his armor.

This stalemate is getting me nowhere, I griped to myself. The complaint had just finished its circuit around the rear of my brain when Jango launched suddenly into the air again and hovered there just out of my reach, taunting me.

An instant later, a laser shell whizzed past me and blew a chunk out of the landing tower. The resultant explosion jolted me to the ground, knocking my lightsaber out of my grasp. It was fortunate that saucy Anakin Skywalker was not here, or else I would never have heard the end of the snide remarks about my dropping my weapon, even though Padawans were supposed to do as their Masters instructed, not as they did.

The idea was wiped from my mind a fraction of a second later as I recognized through the haze of the melee that Boba was firing the ship's laser cannons at me. Of course he was― he was his father's clone, after all.

The older Fett was firing at me as well, but at least I could parry those shots with my lightsaber, or I could if I had that object in my hand currently. Yet, I couldn't afford the time to summon it to me now, for Jango had just touched down in front of me. Gritting my teeth grimly, I lurched forward and grabbed his arms, because as long as we were entangled Boba couldn't fire at me without endangering his dad, too.

Surmising my tactic, Jango slammed on his rockets once more, and the pair of us soared into the air, where my enemy managed to kick me loose. Although I called upon the Force to cushion my landing, which explained why my neck or spine didn't snap in half upon meeting the alloy surface below, I still smacked into the landing pad heavily enough to line my body with bruises. The inertia from the fall caused me to skid across the smooth, wet metallic platform, and I cast my hands about desperately for any handhold before I flew off the landing area and into the fathoms of the teeming gray ocean.

Just when I envisioned that I had found a handhold, something flashed down and snatched up my wrists. Clingwire, I determined numbly, as I was dragged with astonishing swiftness and painfulness across the platform toward a support column that Jango plainly desired to clobber me against, so that he could scoop up the remnants of my brain afterwards.

His wish was foiled when I rolled out of the column's way in time, and then utilized my momentum to tug myself to my feet. Once I had regained a semblance of footing, I threw all of my weight against the wire that entrapped me.

This action caused the clingwire imprisoning me to jab into my wrists in an agonizing fashion, but the abrupt jerk on the wire yanked Jango down. My foe accidentally dropped his jet pack, and, consequentially, he toppled down to the landing area, slipping toward the edge of the platform due to almighty inertia, with me sliding along in his wake.

Faster and faster, we went sailing across the landing pad to our mutual doom. Just as Jango was about to slide off the end, I spotted claws extending from his armor that managed to anchor him in place just before he would have plummeted into the raging sea beneath us. Then, as I sped past my opponent, I felt smugness emanating from him in the Force as the wire slackened.

Automatically, I clutched onto the loosened wire as I descended into the wind-tossed rain, seeking with the Force the other end of the wire that Jango must have just released. For an instant that contained an eternity, I couldn't detect it. Then, I located it, and called on the Force to send it sideways among the massive columns that supported the landing platform and then to tie itself around a cross beam.

As I came to the end of it, the wire ripped into my hands again, but I informed myself severely that it was a noticeable improvement over falling into the seething waves below and being bashed against the struts that kept the landing pad aloft.

Below me, I glimpsed a tiny shelf― probably a sort of service niche― situated above the tempestuous water. Gratefully, I relinquished my grip on the wire and leapt down onto the ledge. I landed smoothly enough, and the pendulum inside me that had been fluctuating all day between worry and relief settled upon relief again as the tension inside me was alleviated partially. Sure enough, as I had figured, there was a service door on the outcropping, and I waved it open with the aid of the Force and bolted up the stairs inside.

I arrived at the landing pad just as Fett's vessel lifted itself to a hover several meters above the ground, undergoing the first step of takeoff. As such, I barely had the time necessary to remove a palm-sized magnetic homing device from my supply kit and hurl it at the ship, which it stuck to like a barnacle on a sea creature, before Slave I raced up toward the sky and receded from view.

However, that didn't concern me at all, because now I just had to trail the homing beacon I had planted on the hull of Jango's transport. That was a relatively simple matter, I thought as I dashed back to my own starfighter, and it was only how I would affect an arrest of Jango Fett when next we met that worried me.

Well, I would fret about that once I had caught up with Jango, I reasoned as I ran up the ramp into my craft. As I strapped in, I remarked, "Hang on tightly, Arfour. Something tells me that we are in for one wild ride."

Arfour beeped something in Bianry, and my console displayed a translation less than a second later: Splendid. I hate flying.

When I read this, I bit my lip. First of all, I hadn't been cognizant of the fact that droids were capable of comprehending or utilizing sarcasm, but, obviously they were. More importantly, I hadn't truly reflected upon the possibility that astromechs wouldn't like flying as much as the cocky pilots they served did. It must have been awful to be trapped in the rear compartment of vehicles when one didn't even like flying, especially once the shooting commenced.

Honestly, the least the factory that manufactured Arfour could have done was ensure that it enjoyed flying, just as the Kaminoans had guaranteed that the clones delighted in warfare, not out of charity but out of a conviction that it would render them more efficient. I supposed that the factory that had produced Arfour did not care about its sentiments about flying as long as it did what it was made to do. That was all quality control cared about, after all. It wasn't all that mattered to me, though. This droid devoted its whole life to working for the Jedi, even if it had no choice in this, and the least I could do was acknowledge its feelings now that I realized that it actually possessed them. Arfour wasn't just a well-programmed hunk of metal and data chips, after all. It was truly far more than the sum of its parts.

"I despise flying as well," I confessed, my lips quirking upward as I steered our transport through Kamino's storm-laden atmosphere, and then followed the homing beacon into obsidian veil of hyperspace for the next installment of my epic mission to hunt down the bounty hunter Jango Fett.

It was a pity that there was nobody I could sell tickets to en route, because the confrontation between Fett and I was bound to be a stellar show, even better than then newest action holvid now playing in theaters across the Galactic Republic, or so my holoadvertisements would have proclaimed, anyway. Yes, if I had not become a Jedi,. I would have left my indelible mark upon the marketing industry.


	11. Chapter 11

Trapped

Although the homing beacon, in a display of fortune generally alien to my existence, appeared to be functioning fine, I pressed my Delta-7 starfighter to the maximum speed as I pursued Slave I, since I did not wish for Jango Fett to get out of range. I had almost caught up to my quarry when it reached a planetary system, which my craft's databanks referred to as Geonosis, and the tracking signal I had been following vanished abruptly. Apparently, Jango Fett had noticed that he was being stalked.

Cautious now that my prey was cognizant of the fact that he was being hunted, I scanned the area, using both the vessel's nav computers and my natural vision. Doing so, I saw that Fett had attempted to conceal himself in an asteroid belt― a suicidal maneuver for all but the most skilled and audacious pilots in the galaxy.

Of course, Jango had to be an excellent pilot in addition to being a devastating warrior. Anything less wouldn't be macho enough for him, and the Force would never deign to give me a relatively basic task for once, I grumbled to myself as I followed Fett into the asteroid field, my jaw clenched so tightly that it hurt. Entering the asteroid belt, I realized just how much I missed my Padawan when he was gone. He would have relished the challenge of navigating us through an airborne obstacle course like this, unlike me, who couldn't wait to set my feet on solid, dependable ground once again.

As soon as my adversary recognized barely three seconds later that I had located him again, he commenced releasing sonic charges that rattled my ship even at this distance. The battle between Fett and I intensified, as we both evaded missiles and threaded around asteroids, firing at each other and striving to avoid a crash that would not only result in a fiery conflagration but also all of our deaths.

"Damn it, this is why I hate flying," I mumbled, but R-4 was too preoccupied with helping me survive this catastrophe to respond. Flying was for fools like Anakin Skywalker who didn't appreciate how they courted a pyrotechnic death with every second they spent in a cockpit, I amended to myself as Fett locked on me, and then I was too busy struggling with the controls to think about anything except cheating imminent death.

Fett's vehicle was larger and more heavily armed than mine, which was no surprise when his career choice was taken into account, and the next missile he aimed at me was a guided torpedo. Trailing Fett into the asteroid field had been as clever as a carnival sword-swallower upgrading his act to a lightsaber. It was a blunder worthy of someone as impulsive and unsubtle as my apprentice, not somebody of my age and experience, I reproved myself while I swerved in and out among the gigantic slabs of rock in a futile attempt to lose the torpedo, which was not only copying my every move but was swiftly gaining upon me.

Desperate times warrant desperate measures that might― just might― prevent you from snuffing it, I decided as I selected a particularly enormous asteroid, and dived straight into it at top speed, throwing all vestiges of sanity and caution to the winds. As I had anticipated, the torpedo followed me mindlessly.

"R-4, prepare to jettison the spare parts canister," I ordered as we rapidly approached the hunk of unfeeling, uncompromising minerals that would either be our salvation or our damnation. When the atromech beeped a confirmation that indicated that it, mercifully, wasn't panicking under these stressful and terrifying circumstances, I relaxed into the Force, sensing for the right moment to execute my plan.

"Release them now!" I commanded. While R-4 complied instantly, I whipped my vessel up and sideways.

Glancing backward over my shoulder for a millisecond, I watched the torpedo strike the asteroid behind me in a tremendous explosion that hurled chunks of rock and the extra parts back into space. As quickly as I could, I ducked my craft into one of the craters on the far side of the asteroid and switched off the power systems.

With luck, a precious commodity that I was certain I had already used up my daily if not weekly quota of, Fett would conclude from the combustion on the asteroid and the spare parts floating in space that my ship had crashed and gone up in flames. However, I was not about to take any chances. Since Jango seemed to be a shrewd man, I suspected that he might perform a scan for power systems, just to ensure that my starfighter truly had been destroyed, which was why I turned off the power.

After waiting for what felt like hours, I brought the power back on and took off. Luckily, there was no sign of Fett, and, with a relieved exhale, I sent my vessel skimming along the bounty hunter's last known route, down toward the planet of Geonosis. It transpired that Geonosis was a barren, rocky world that rivaled Tatooine in terms of attractiveness. Dusty crimson mesas that roasted by day and froze by night pockmarked the globe.

I had just completed absorbing the awe-inspiring and breath-taking beauty of Geonosis, which Belazura had nothing on, when R-4 tootled, announcing that it had projected my foe's probable path. R-4's projection of Fett's course led us to the far side of the world, where I spotted no trace of any cities. Instead, I saw only gargantuan stone spires that born an uncanny resemblance to stalagmites.

When Jango headed toward one of these unusual structures, I tracked him at a distance, and found a rock ledge on a nearby mesa that jetted out far enough for me to conceal my vessel there. With the utmost care, I manipulated my craft into the gap underneath it and landed. After double-checking my bearings, I started walking through the blazing arid environment toward the spire my prey had disappeared into.

At the crest of the trail, I paused and withdrew a pair of electro-binoculars from my supply kit, which I utilized to study the terrain around the strange spire, which was definitely not a natural construction, I concluded, and what in all the neighboring galaxies was that?

My forehead knotting in bafflement, I reeled the magnification back a few notches and glimpsed a contingency of Trade Federation battleships parked in perfect rows alongside the spire. As I stared at this scene, a hole opened in the ground on one side of the landing pad as a lift platform dropped, and, a moment later, it returned, carrying dozens of lethal battle droids. That meant that there must be a factory underground― a production facility that I would need to examine in more depth.

To my shock, sneaking into the spire was a far less complicated enterprise than I had expected. As the Trade Federation crafts and the battle droids were all arrayed around one side of the spire, presumably the front, all I had to do was scale the rear wall and creep in through a window, which was an exercise most initiates could have accomplished with minimal difficulty.

Once inside, I learned that the interior of the spire was comparable to an enlarged hive, because it was a warren of narrow corridors hewn from the native dirty red soil that opened without warning onto large, vaulted spaces.

Several times, I sensed that an organism was approaching barely in time to leap behind a pillar or into the shadows of a doorway, out of sight of the passerby. Five minutes into my adventure inside the spire, I reached a vast open area, which had a high ceiling that caused every sound to echo and was apparently deserted. Just as I was about to cross it stealthily, I heard voices and darted behind a close by column, instead.

I had hidden myself at the last possible second for just after I had ducked behind the pillar, a varied congregation of sentients emerged from one of the numerous hallways that fed onto the square and started across the chamber. Among the assembly were several of the insectoid Geonosians, and a number of off-worlders.

Blinking in alarm, I realized that I recognized two of the Geonosians' guests: Nute Gunray, the amoral Trade Federation Viceroy and the scumbag who had organized the attack on peaceful Naboo a decade earlier, and Count Dooku, the fallen Jedi who was the evil mastermind behind the Separatist threat.

Aware that when villains met, foul play was always being concocted, I leaned forward as much as I could without blowing my cover, and eavesdropped on the exchange as best as I could. I was fortunate in that it was a rather heated one. Obviously, all evil beings did not always see eye to eye on how to vanquish the Republic, which meant that our government wasn't the only one handicapped by an inability to cooperate among officials.

"Persuade the Commerce Guild and the Corporate Alliance to sign the treaty," intoned Count Dooku, his black hole eyes centering on Gunray like lasers.

"What about the Senator from Naboo?" Nute Gunray demanded, his mouth twisting as he demonstrated what was, for him and his species as a whole, an inordinate amount of courage and tenacity. After all, Neimoidians generally stuttered and relied upon the size of their bank accounts for strength. "Is she dead yet?" When Count Dooku did not reply, he stipulated, "I'm not signing your treaty until I have her head on my desk."

What a revolting and barbaric notion, I noted, hoping that Gunray was being hyperbolic or metaphoric, as Dooku reassured him frostily, "I am a man of my word, Viceroy." It was comforting to know that the Jedi prohibition against lying had remained ingrained in his head long after all other moral instructions had faded.

Yet, my sarcasm could not prevent the shock from overtaking me. Anakin had been correct. Nute Gunray and Count Dooku were behind the assassination attempts on Senator Amidala. Even the Neimoidian merchants, so callous in pursuit of wealth, would forgo economic gain in favor of vengeance, it seemed. Amidala's humiliation of them on Naboo must have really rankled with them, I determined inwardly, as I slipped through the shadows to the next column, striving to get close enough to the conversing beings to hear more gems, but one of the Geonosians began chattering about the battle droids and then they strode through an arch out of earshot.

I had to figure out exactly what trouble they were cooking up for the Republic. After checking hastily if anyone else was coming onto the square, I hurried to a stairway next to the arch the Geonosians, Dooku, and Gunray had exited under. To my relief, the stairs led to a lengthy gallery that overlooked the meeting hall below, where Dooku appeared to be conducting a major conference, because in addition to Nute Gunray and the Geonosians, several senators who endorsed the Separatist movement and representatives from the Commerce Guild and the Corporate Alliance were present at this treasonous summit.

Listening to their negotiations, I frowned. The Commerce Guild, the Corporate Alliance, and the Trade Federation, with their legions of droid armies, were rallying under the Separatist banner. Thus, it looked as though Dooku honestly intended to start a civil war, which meant that the clone armies might truly have to be used, as abhorrent as that was to contemplate.

The idea of war engulfing the entire galaxy for the first time in millennia, ravaging the metropolises, the universities, the libraries, the theaters, and the museums that generations had toiled to construct in homage to the nobler aspects of sentients, sickened me. The culture that had accumulated in centuries of devoted labor would be wrecked in at most a few years, and, even if the Republic won, it would still require decades, at the least, to rebuild.

Dooku would tear the galaxy apart just to satisfy his pride and prove that he could do it. None of this was about the rights of individual planets― it was about the ego of a Jedi who had fallen to the Dark Side and abandoned everything our Order symbolized. He was blackness where we were light; he was chaos where we were dependability; he was anarchy where we embodied civilization; he was selfish where we were altruistic and dedicated to the service of others.

Masters Yoda and Mace Windu had to be apprised of this threat at once since they will know what to do, I reasoned dimly, and crept back up the steps and back toward my ship to convey a message to the Temple. When I arrived at my transport, I requested that R-4 establish another connection to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant so that I could update Yoda and Mace Windu upon my most recent discovery. Unfortunately, the distance was too great for the astromech's communication facilities, and I couldn't get even a static holocam back to the Temple.

Recognizing a hopeless case when it danced before my eyes, I commanded R-4 to attempt to contact Anakin on Naboo, which was considerably closer to Geonosis, instead. Alarmingly, however, the astromech was unable to locate my apprentice's comlink signal on Senator Amidala's homeworld. Glowering as I wondered what my Padawan could find so impossible about abiding by the elementary mandate of remaining on Naboo with the Senator unless he had attained permission to travel elsewhere, I told R-4 to expand the search radius. Scarcely a moment after widening the search parameters, the droid squealed in triumph, having detected Anakin's comlink signal on Tatooine.

"What's he doing there?" I muttered absently, shaking my head in dismay, and not really expecting R-4, who was not programmed in psychology, to shed any light on the lunatic behavior of Anakin Skywalker, who sometimes could not explain the logic behind some of his own actions. Perhaps, though, this illicit visit to Tatooine was tied to his nightmares about his mother. When I saw my Padawan again, I would be sure to introduce him to the novel concept of employing the brilliant new invention that was the comlink to communicate with others. After all, there was a reason why the Council had furnished every Jedi with his or her own comlink, and it wasn't because the Council had not devised a better way to spend a thousand remaining credits in the Temple budget.

Now, though, wasn't the time to concern myself with that. I had a message that I had to transmit to my apprentice so he could relay it back to the Temple on Coruscant. Yet, Anakin wasn't around to answer his comlink, and it was Senator Amidala's feisty astromech, R2-D2, who received my transmission. Aware that I did not have the luxury of time to learn the reason behind this anomaly, I directed R2 to have Anakin forward the message to the Temple, and then went on to detail the conversations I had spied upon.

I had just concluded describing how the Commerce Guild, the Corporate Alliance, and the Trade Federation had pledged their armies to Dooku when a squadron of patrolling droidekas rolled up to me, shooting a steady maelstrom of bolts at me.

"What? Wait!" I shouted frantically, snatching out my lightsaber, and deflecting as many bolts away from me and back at my inanimate enemies as possible. The bolts that I couldn't parry, I twisted out of the way of, and they ricocheted off the clay wall of the mesa.

Instead of crumbling under the blitz of their own bolts being turned against them, the droidekas activated their deflector shields. This permitted them to repel the bolts I returned to them, while also continuing to fire a barrage of bolts on me.

There was nothing I could do to halt the ever-increasing number of bolts whizzing at me, and there was nowhere I could flee to, given that I was on the ledge of a mesa and I couldn't jump off it, not possessing wings of my own. I was also surrounded by droidekas, and was, therefore, incapable of reaching my starship to fly away. Today definitely wasn't my day, not that any of them ever were.

I really wished that my assailants had been the standard scrapnel-waiting-to-happen "Roger, roger" brand of Federation battle droids, not droidekas, who were practically impossible to conquer. That failing, I would have settled for having Anakin by my side in this confrontation. Whatever his shortcomings in other areas, he was a talented lightsaber fighter, and his mastery of the more aggressive Form V would have been an asset right about now. Clearly, someone at the Council had fouled up the flimsies again. It was Anakin who enjoyed the adrenaline high produced by lightsaber fights and spaceship battles, not me, and I could have protected Senator Amidala without falling in love with her or dragging her to remote worlds ruled by Hutts. If they had to split us up, they could have at least assigned us to the appropriate segments of the mission.

Such thoughts proved to be a distraction, and a stray bolt flew through my guard and hit my wrist. The pain that jolted through my arm a nanosecond later almost caused me to drop my lightsaber reflexively, but I retained enough of my senses to toss my weapon into my other hand at the last instant.

Now that I was wounded, the droidekas pressed their advantage, forcing me to retreat. Soon they had me trapped against my craft, encircling me so tightly that it was difficult for me to swing my blade to deflect their assaults. I lost all interest in my surroundings, focusing only upon my confrontation with the droidekas.

More bolts rammed into me, but I was in such a state that I didn't notice very much, since they were not in vital areas, and, my other arm was spared, as well. However, I did realize when something― I never spotted what precisely― slammed into my skull, and what felt like a hundred vibrodaggers pierced through my brain. After a few seconds of agony, the pain receded into blissful oblivion as the galaxy around me descended into darkness.

Sometime later―I wasn't certain exactly how long, because I was poised in a peculiar alternate universe where time had no significance― a dawning light rose in my head, and my consciousness gradually returned to me, as the light inside my brain increased in size and intensity, paralleling a correlated elevation in the pain that I was starting feel again in my head. The agony was twice as strong now, since I had been separated from it temporarily, owing to the fact that I had been knocked out.

Well, now that I was regaining consciousness, I ought to devote some effort to figuring out where I was in relation to the rest of the universe. Yes, that would be a worthwhile endeavor. Since I was still in pain, that implied that I wasn't dead, which meant that the droidekas had taken me prisoner. From there, the next question was obvious even to a person who had lost several brain cells due to being knocked out: Where was I held captive?

To find the solution to this problem, I would have to open my eyes. This ended up being a task that was considerably more complicated than I recollected it, mainly because my eyelids didn't want to heed my brain's directives to open, but I was able to accomplish it.

Immediately, though, I wished that I hadn't. When I opened my eyes, the specifics of the situation I was ensnared in washed over me, and that wasn't a positive occurrence. As I had expected, I was locked in a Geonosian dungeon. By itself, this wouldn't have been so dreadful, as it was, for the most part, more sanitary than most of the detention cells that I had the pleasure of being kept in during my exciting career as a Jedi. However, I wasn't just trapped in a prison cell. No, I was suspended in an energy field that restricted all movement.

As I took inventory of my environs, there was a crackle, and a sharp, tingly agony jabbed through my arm. Oh, yes, and the electric restraints that bound me were definitely unpleasant, I noted.

Before my mind could conjure up any more soothing and merry notions, the door of the holding cell swung open with a creak, and Count Dooku sauntered in, every centimeter the lofty, privileged aristocrat who looked down his nose upon anyone who was not the net result of several generations of gentle breeding among bluebloods.

"Hello, my friend." Count Dooku greeted me with a faint smile, as if we were old buddies who regrettably had been out of touch for awhile, instead of opponents on separate sides of a galactic civil war of his own creation. I was honored that he would condescend to confer with me personally, when he could have dispatched an underling to do his dirty work for him. Maybe he was a sadist who relished torturing prisoners whenever he could. "This is a mistake, a terrible mistake. They've gone too far. This is madness."

"I thought you were their leader, Dooku," I pointed out with all the acidity I could muster on such short notice after being out of commission for an indefinite timeframe. I tried not to wince as the electric restraints cackled again, and another agonizing current sizzled through my veins. I sincerely wished that he would spot the folly of pretending to have no control over an organization that he was the chief of, but that was not to be.

"This had nothing to do with me, I assure you," declared Dooku with the causal confidence of those who were accustomed to offering false promises as frequently as they drew breath. For someone who decried the corruption of the Republic, he plainly was not immune to lying and using violence to attain his goals, just like many politicians, which was more proof, as though it were required, that his motives were not noble when he devised the Separatist platform. The surprises would never end, it appeared.

"I promise you that I will petition immediately to have you set free," stated Dooku in a silky tone that could convince beings to go to the hells depicted in the folklores of numerous planets because they would doubtlessly enjoy the trip.

"Well, I hope that it doesn't take too long. I have work to do," I answered tersely, deciding that it was easier to pretend to believe him so that I could be left alone to concoct a scheme to escape my latest dilemma. Even if he would actually petition his partners in crime to release me sometime before there was a blizzard on Tatooine, I didn't have the time to wait while his appeal was debated forever in some committee or sub-committee while I rotted and ultimately died here. Bureaucracy was an element not of just the Republic government, but of any government, even the most local ones. This was a fact of life that should be accepted by anyone who took pleasure in existence outside the confines of a mental institute.

"It's a great pity that our paths have never crossed before, Obi-Wan." Persevering in his attempts to make polite conversation between us for reasons best comprehended by his messed-up mind, Dooku decided to wax sentimental. I considered educating him that I could have gone my whole life without making his acquaintance and not have felt like I was deprived of anything, but chose to bite my tongue. After all, I reminded myself, I ought not to provide him with the satisfaction of a response, since most organisms got bored and departed if the sentient they taunted refused to chase after the bait.

"Qui-Gon always spoke very highly of you," Count Dooku persisted, and my eyes widened slightly because I had not been aware that my Master was friends with the man before me. No, they couldn't have been close, I argued to myself. Surely, Jocasta would have mentioned it if they were. Dooku was just weaving an emotional tale to play to my sympathies. That was all, and I wasn't going to fall into his trap. A bereaved mask slid over his features. "I wish he were still alive."

So do I, I thought, despite myself. In fact, I could hardly make it through a day without imagining how my Master would have handled a situation, or remembering a piece of wisdom he had given to me years ago. Yet, however much I thought about him, Qui-Gon never return to life, and I had come to terms with that eons ago. Therefore, if Count Dooku had found a way to resurrect Qui-Gon through wishing for him to be alive, he would have to comm me. Until then, there was really no need for us to interact any further. Grief for Qui-Gon, most likely feigned on Dooku's part, was the extent of our similarities, and a discussion of our ideological differences would probably become violent. That is, it would if I still had my lightsaber, which had been taken from me, it seemed, when I had been incarcerated.

"I could use his help right now," commented Dooku languidly, gazing at me in a manner that more than hinted that I should aid him in his quixotic crusade against the corrupt Republic. That was too much for me. That he would fake grief for my former Master was horrible enough, but it was outright insulting that he would imply that Qui-Gon would ever have joined a madman in his quest to destroy the Republic and civilization, and, in the process, renege on his oath to the Jedi Order.

"Qui-Gon Jinn would _never_ join you," I snapped, my spine stiffening.

"Don't be so sure, my young Jedi," chided Dooku gently, as if he were a Master and I was his apprentice, which was not something I appreciated. "He was once my apprentice, just as you were once his."

Stunned, I absorbed this revelation in silence. I had never asked who Qui-Gon's Master had been, because, as childish as it was, I had never reflected upon the matter. In my brain, it was almost as if Qui-Gon Jinn had sprung up fully formed when I was thirteen to be my Master. Thus, he could never have had a childhood or an apprenticeship, and it wasn't as if Qui-Gon had discussed those experiences with me.

I supposed that it made sense that Qui-Gon had been Dooku's Padawan. After all, they had the same determination, the same assurance that they had selected the proper road even if everyone else was at odds with them, the same disregard for convention, and the same authoritative bearing. Yet, they weren't as alike as they appeared on the surface. Qui-Gon had emanated a waiting kindness, and underneath his composed, stern façade there was a compassion and connection for all lifeforms that few could ever hope to match. As for Dooku, under his serene and confident exterior, there was nothing but a haughty contempt of everybody else in the galaxy, which he strove to conceal out of a sort of pity for lesser sentients. He was a true gentleman, after all, and it wouldn't do to make others realize their inadequacies.

"He knew all about the corruption in the Senate," Count Dooku added, "but he would never have gone along with it if he had known the truth as I have."

"The truth?" I pressed. What truth was he referencing― the truth that the Senate was mired in bureaucracy? Well, that was not exactly front page news to anyone who hadn't been living in the hind end of nowhere for the past three centuries. However, I had a surprise for him. Our government wasn't designed to be efficient.

In fact, it was intended to be just the opposite: slow, so that its citizens could be protected from infringements on their rights by a power-hungry government. If efficiency was the objective, then a republican government was useless, whereas a dictatorship would be the ideal, since it was far easier to have one being make up his mind on an issue than to have thousands achieve the same feat. The goal of government, though, wasn't efficiency. It was to protect the common people, and only a republic could do that. Therefore, the Senate, as awful as it might sometimes have seemed, was a necessary evil, and seceding from the Republic was foolish, and certainly not worth starting a civil war over.

"What if I told you that the Republic was now under the control of the Dark Lords of the Sith?" Count Dooku decided to plunge into the waters of insanity headfirst.

"No, that's not possible," I countered. "The Jedi would be aware of it."

"The Dark Side of the Force has clouded their vision, my friend," explained Dooku with a credible imitation of mournfulness. "Hundreds of Senators are now under the influence of a Sith Lord called Darth Sidious."

The absurdity of this assertion begged clarification, and I tried to reach out with the Force to discern the veracity of the other man's allegations, but the electric restraints crackled again, and I could not maintain the concentration this venture demanded. "I don't believe you," I announced, trying to prod him into handing me further information about how he had arrived at such an outlandish conclusion.

"The Viceroy of the Trade Federation was once in league with this Darth Sidious, but he was betrayed. He came to me for help. The Jedi Council would not believe him. I've tried many times to warn them, but they wouldn't listen to me." At this point, Dooku bent forward in his fervor so that he was almost touching the force field, his narrow face almost cadaverous. "You must join me, Obi-Wan, and together we will destroy the Sith."

For a moment, I could only gape at him. Apparently, if Qui-Gon had ever actually spoken about me to Dooku, he had neglected to mention that I was a rule-abider who obeyed the Code basically word for word. When it came down to it, on many levels, I was everything that my Master had rebelled against in the Jedi Order: unquestioning compliance with the dictums of the Council and the wisdom of forebears. I would remain a Jedi no matter what, and that was the end of it. How could he envision that I would be tempted to throw away everything I had been taught since I was a youngling so easily?

Besides, despite Dooku's lofty claims about the Senate being a rotten entity, the fact remained that he had plotted with the very corporate interests, the Trade Federation and the Corporate Alliance and its ilk, that had been a massive contributor to the erosion of morality in the political sphere, if it had ever existed there, of course. As such, his new regime was just going to hand more power to these business elites, instead of more influence to the common people that Dooku purported to represent. At least in the Republic, there were enough conflicting interests to ensure that the wealthy merchant guilds didn't bleed the civilians dry. Besides, the Senate needed to be reformed if possible, not smashed. If it had worked for a thousand years, it could last for a thousand more. Anyway, Dooku's new government would be spoiled at its core, as his attempts to murder Senator Amidala revealed, and trees with rotten stumps never reached adulthood.

"I will never join you, Dooku," I pronounced, as intractable as durasteel.

For a brief interval, the addressed scrutinized me, seeking a vulnerability that he could exploit. Then, detecting none, he pivoted to leave. On his way out, he remarked offhandedly, "It may be difficult to secure your release." With that, he was gone, and I was left alone to analyze our exchange.

The underlining message in Dooku's final statement was clearer than transparisteel: Join me, or you stay here. Maybe I should pretend to join Dooku, and, then, as soon as I was let out, I could escape…but no, that wasn't feasible since Dooku had been a Jedi, which meant that he would be capable of sensing my true purpose.

Well, that was Plan A scratched, but the uplifting thing about the alphabet was that it provided so many alternative solutions to every problem. In this case, I had Plans A though Z to try, once I devised them, of course. Actually, I had better start doing that while I still had a chance, since I didn't know how long Dooku would wait for me to have a powerful conversion experience before he elected to torture me or something else unnerving to contemplate, instead.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: I'm sorry if this isn't the best chapter, but I've been kind of distracted lately because of mid-terms and because my cousin was in a car crash with a drunk driver, and I've been spending a lot of time at the hospital with him. (By the way, he didn't know the drunk driver. The drunk driver was just a stranger who had so many drinks that he didn't figure out that if he had trouble getting to his car, he probably should take public transport home instead of driving a car when he can hardly walk. My cousin was just driving home from seeing my grandma at the rehab center and bam.) That's also why it might have taken me awhile to respond to a review. It was nothing personal.

Monsters

After what felt like millennia, but was probably only a handful of hours, I was devising escape plan D-subscript-eleven of an increasingly less feasible list of plots to liberate myself from my Geonosian prison, when Count Dooku swaggered into my detention cell once again.

"Please tell me that you've changed your mind and have decided to accept my kind offer," he remarked earnestly, as if he sincerely hoped that this would be the case. Perhaps he did. Maybe living in a depraved moral condition was no fun if one couldn't drag others down to one's own vulgar level. Even the Manikons who scavenged in Coruscant's filthiest rubbish heaps wanted the company of their peers when they did so, after all. Evil was like a virus― it wasn't content unless it had infected someone else and created a new host to utilize as a base to subdue others from. Well, I wasn't going to be one of Dooku's victims.

"If you're referring to your generous proposal for me to abandon everything the Jedi― and I― stand for, then, no, I haven't, alarmingly enough," I informed him frigidly, reciting the next line of our impromptu drama. That was all this was, and he was as cognizant of that as I was. After all, by now he would have had the epiphany that I was not going to be persuaded to rally to his cause anytime before the universe ended. He just desired to relish every moment of his triumph, hence the playacting. Appearances were everything to a gentleman, and they must be maintained no matter what, even if one had to resort to theatrics.

"Then, there is nothing more I can do for you, my friend," sighed Dooku, his manner implying that he perceived this as one of the most wrenching tragedies to occur since the dawn of civilization. "I despise being the bearer of bad tidings, but the Geonosians have assembled a court to try your case, and you have been convicted of espionage―"

"I didn't even attend my own trial!" I exclaimed, appalled. Out of the reflex pounded into the head of every Republic civilian, raised to be aware of their rights and be vigilant for infringements on them, I was about to remind him that the Constitution dictated that I was granted a trial by jury, which I was entitled to attend, after I had been apprised of the accusations leveled against me and had been able to procure a defense attorney, when I remembered that the Constitution was useful only as fuel for the fire here. I was no longer in the Republic, so the laws that governed that entity were not applicable here. Here I was subject to the justice of the Geonosisans, a phrase that appeared to entail a contradiction in terms, as their idea of a fair, unbiased trial seemed to be one in which the defendant was guilty until proven innocent beyond all reasonable or unreasonable doubt.

"You have been sentenced to death for your crimes," finished Dooku, ignoring my outburst like a patient parent would pay no mind to a child kicking their chair during a lengthy and dull concert.

"In the Republic, such a sentence would have taken years to arrive at," I observed caustically, his words not impacting me much because I still had difficulty applying them to me. At the moment, I could only study the situation with an academic detachment. When I truly understood my sentence, no doubt that would change. After all, I wasn't serene enough to face execution without a little indulgence in panic. Even the strictest Jedi would have to permit me that last frail consolation.

"The Republic is hampered in a bureaucratic swamp, that's why," countered Dooku, his tone smoother than permaglass.

"No," I contended, "that's not so in this instance. It's because the Republic was founded to safeguard the rights of sentients, and our government comprehends that if you're going to deprive an organism of their most crucial right― their right to life― you better be positive that they really are guilty and the magnitude of their crime warrents such treatment. That's democracy."

"That's your notion of democracy," corrected Dooku, waving a dismissive hand. As he elaborated, he adopted the attitude of a zealot who strives to conceal his savagery under a veneer of affected lofty morals, "Individual planets have their own rights, as well, and they can best represent their constituents, since they are most closely acquainted with them. Being experts in the business realm, the Geonosians value efficiency, which explains the speed at which you were tried and is the reason why your sentence will be carried out immediately."

Before I could stutter out through numb lips that under the Republic I would have been allowed to have a barrister appeal such a ruling to a superior court for decades, Dooku chopped me off before I could even start to establish as much. "It's just as well that this is so, because the Jedi have a vexing habit of rescuing their own when they are slotted for execution owing to violations of planetary laws. If you ask me, it is another corrupt display of a moldering government perpetuating itself."

It was on the tip of my tongue to announce that he would know all about being above the law as he and his corporate cronies seemed to have determined that they had been handed the onerous obligation of enforcing the law from their comfortable and secure perch above it. However, again, Dooku overrode me, unwilling to grant a dying man a last chance to speak, "You'll be escorted to the arena now, unless―"

"Don't waste your breath completing the terms," I interjected, taking advantage of the opportunity to return the favor of interrupting. "My answer is still no. I will never join you or the Separatists, no matter what you offer me."

Nothing was worth selling my honor for. After all, there was nobody in the galaxy with an identical ethical code, so mine was priceless― not that Jedi were enticed by the prospect of riches, anyway.

"Very well. It's a pity to stumble upon such narrow-minded obstinacy in one so young, but I can do nothing more to rescue one so headstrong," murmured the Count, pivoting and sauntering to the door with his typical aristocratic hauteur. When he reached the doorframe, he spun around to face me again, and commented with a casualness that suggested he was stating the time of day, "I have an appointment with the Geonosians, and you have to meet your fate, I'm afraid."

Unfortunately, I was denied the chance to retort when he exited the dungeon, a departure that I normally would not have mourned, but did now because it sounded my death knell. As un-Jedi as it was, I wasn't ready to perish. Maybe it was just my ego rearing its ugly head again, but I was convinced that I still had contributions to make to the galaxy, and I had so much left to teach Anakin…At least I had managed to warn the Council about Dooku's intentions and the droid armies that would fight for his cause. That is, I had if my Padawan had received my message…

Don't start fretting about that, I commanded myself severely, as a squadron of Geonosian sentries entered my holding cell, your transmission went through fine and R-2 can be trusted to give it to Anakin. With only this as a solace, I was shunted down the hive-like passageways to a dimly illuminated tunnel, where I was tied to the side of a small, open hovercart.

Somehow, I still could not quite absorb what was occurring. It was impossible for me to accept that I was bound to a hovercart that was transporting me to my execution. This was how sentients had received capital punishment centuries ago, before reformers demonstrated how barbaric it was to savor the sight of another's death and to have one's offspring accompany one as if it were a joyous festival or a fascinating sporting event. In the Republic, executions were carried out in private, which was loads more civilized. At any rate, it proved that justice was with the Republic, not the Separatists.

Then all thought was erased from my mind as the hovercart lurched forward, causing me to jolt forward also due to the principles of inertia that ruled in our universe even when the laws of civilized sentients didn't. I could hear the roar of the hordes of Geonosians shouting out in their bloodlust as I was conveyed down the dark tunnel and into the scorching yellow brightness of the execution arena, where the brilliant sun's rays reflected off the sand, hurting my eyes.

While I was chained to a wooden post in the coliseum, I sought the placidity that a Jedi ought to cultivate when he or she was about to become one with the Force, because Jedi embraced death as the ultimate product of life, just as life was the net result of death, and did not waste our remaining time and energy in a futile battle against its might, which humbled all of us eventually. Yet, I couldn't find the calm I required, no matter how hard I searched.

I was a human, after all, and I couldn't prevent the eternal inquiries that organisms have asked themselves ever since they learned to think and imagine that had no answers from invading my brain like insects on a picnic basket. Needless to say, this venture only increased my anxiety. Even recognizing that, I couldn't cease pondering the enigmas of the hereafter, because I had to contemplate such issues now as if I didn't I might not get another chance.

What happened to your thoughts when you were killed, anyhow? Were they abruptly severed and doomed to remain unfulfilled forevermore? Would that even amount to anything if you were one with the Force and supposedly knew everything? While I was on the topic, what exactly did becoming one with the Force encompass?

Since I was no youngling, I was aware that it had long been a tenet of the Jedi philosophy that when a Jedi perished, he or she relinquished the ego to the Force, thereby becoming one with it. It might be the death of the identity of the individual, but it was also a transformation and an ascension to a higher plane where one's essence merged with innumerable others, constructing a gestalt that slipped the manacles of space-time, simultaneously creating, nourishing, and sustaining itself. Perhaps due to my logical and skeptical bent, I had never quite comprehended the benefit of this, as unorthodox as it sounded.

Even if one was able to accomplish through meditation and adherence to the Jedi Code such a metempsychosis upon one's death, why was this elevation to unity different from the mere cessation of consciousness? Sure, I would be a part of a greater whole, but I wouldn't be cognizant of it, so it might as well not be so.

Given my limited mental capability, I could not conceive of how a transfiguration so profound could be any more desirable than simply stopping and surrendering to the endless black void of death. I had been willing to accept on faith and on the words of beings wiser than myself that it was so, but I had never actually understood it.

But, in the final analysis, was eternal life really to be all that greatly desired? Eternity was an incredibly long time. Was even the Force truly eternal? Some scientists, I knew, postulated that in the most extreme extension of the future, entropy would prevail utterly over all enthalpy. According to the scientists' hypotheses, black holes would swallow all heat and light, and, being ravenous but having nothing else to consume, would also devour themselves, and then the universe would be rendered a cold, lifeless, and sterile expanse in which no star shone, no flower bloomed, and no child giggled. Could the Force prevent itself from such a fate? Would it even be worth doing if it could be done?

And what, I ruminated peevishly, weary of wrestling with metaphysical conundrums to which there were no solutions on this side of the bridge that divided the living from the dead, was taking the Geonosians so blasted long? Ironically, they were taking more time to follow through on their sentence than they had to charge, try, and convict me combined, and I really wished they would hurry up and get this over with, a sentiment the listless, grumbling masses packed in the stands appeared to share. It wasn't that I was in a particular rush to go, as I had not figured what exactly happened after death, but waiting in suspense like this was worse than death must be.

I was reflecting upon this when the crowd applauded and screamed in elation. Glancing upward, I spotted the tiny hovercart that had borne me into the coliseum gliding out of the tunnel again. When I glimpsed its two passengers, Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala, a groan escaped my mouth and my eyes shut momentarily.

Obviously, my apprentice had received my message and had elected to embark on a self-appointed quest to rescue me, which, clearly, had been a magnificent success. His dedication to me, which I had never doubted, was touching, but I wished that he had paused to think, like he never seemed to do, before he came running to save me. Then, he would have realized that dragging Senator Amidala here was foolish since it imperiled the woman we had been assigned to protect.

Well, at least they would be fulfilled when they passed away, I attempted to comfort myself as I watched helplessly as my Padawan was chained to the stake next to me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Senator Amidala slip a minuscule glittering object under her sleeves behind the guards' backs just before they tied her to the post beside Anakin.

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd gotten my message," I noted, focusing on the young man next to me again as the Geonosian sentinels stepped away from us.

"I re-transmitted it just as you requested, Master," he replied, his neck muscles twitching as though he was barely resisting the overpowering temptation to glance at the gorgeous woman who had captured all of his enormous heart so many years ago. "Then we decided to come and rescue you."

"Good job!" I snorted, eyeing the shackles that bound my wrists to emphasize the verbal irony inherent in my remark. Yes, my ingenious apprentice, now is the part of the rescue mission where you save the person whose extraction from a dangerous situation is your objective.

At my words, Anakin looked stricken, and I kicked myself mentally. Doubtlessly, he had figured out that he had been reckless, and he didn't need me hammering his stupidity into his skull. It was a shame that he hadn't discerned that my wit was always at its sharpest when I was worried about someone. Thus, in reality, my comment was in reality a declaration of how much I cared about him.

I was about to explain this to him because I didn't want my last words to him to be so sarcastic, but I was prevented from doing so by Nute Gunray, the other commercial delegates, and the senators who promoted the Separatist agenda strolling into a luxury box with the Geonosian Archduke and Count Dooku. To my distaste, Dooku, unsurprisingly, had been relegated to a position of honor at the front, guarded by Jango Fett, who appeared to be the Count's hired muscle and protection, although I suspected that, push come to shove, the brain of the Separatists could defend his interests better than a vast majority of the galactic population. His title and his intellect were not his only weapons in this war.

As soon as the hovercart that had conveyed my Padawan and Senator Amidala into the arena had departed, retreating up the dark tunnel once more, the Archduke rose, and the Geonosians who had been griping to their neighbors about the delay because it meant that they had devoured all their snacks before the show even commenced and they didn't wish to be bothered by squeezing past their fellow spectators to purchase more refreshments on the concourse, stopped mid-complaint and stared at their head of state, instead. Once he was confident that he had the audience's attention, the Archduke formally pronounced that my two comrades and I were to be killed for committing espionage against the sovereign world of Geonosis, as if there was any sentient in the entirety of the coliseum who wasn't cognizant of the fact that we were to be executed, and then declared in a voice that vibrated throughout the structure, "Let the executions begin!"

Eerily reminiscent of the multitudes that would cheer as their home shockball team entered the stadium on Corsucant, Alderaan, Corellia, or any number of civilized planets, the throngs in this arena applauded, delighted by the notion of beholding the gory ends of three lives in the near future, while the Archduke regained his seat, the smugness on his features implying that he believed the crowd's enthusiasm derived from devotion to his personage rather than to excitement at the capital punishments that were about to take place.

For some reason, now that the moment of truth was upon me, I was numb, and I barely noticed what transpired as three gigantic gates opened like the maws of monsters attempting to gobble their prey. Perhaps my body was softening the blow of my departure by causing me to lose my awareness of the rest of the galaxy in installments so that it would be less of a shock, I thought as an enormous, broad-shouldered beast with heart-pausingly long horns barreled onto the sand, most likely to bring about the demise of my fellow criminals and me in the very immediate future.

It was a reek, which meant that it was powerful but dim-witted, and Anakin and I had confronted worse odds and emerged victorious in the past, I attempted to reassure myself as a massive feline with fangs almost as sizeable as the reek's horns― a nexu― charged out of the second gateway and the third one disgorged an acklay, which was a lizard the size of a starfighter equipped with pincers that could sever a grown man in half with ease.

Behind each of these horrors, came a knot of Geonosian picadors, astride smaller mounts and bearing electrojabbers which they utilized to prod the monsters toward the center of the arena. Needless to say, this sight made my stomach perform an astounding series of acrobatic stunts I had never recognized that it was capable of. It was fortunate that I had not consumed anything since that peculiar fruit on Kamino, which I had long since digested, or else I would have been regurgitating it, and it would not have been half as appetizing a second time around.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," mumbled Anakin, his eyes locked on the lethal trio approaching us. If he was only just now feeling this way, he must have possessed nerves of durasteel, or else a brain of durasteel, because I had been harboring that sentiment ever since I was put into this coliseum.

"Take the one on the right," I directed, nodding at the reek in case he had forgotten which way was left and which right in his present condition. After all, as the senior Jedi here, I was responsible for devising a strategy that might if everything went, as it never did, according to plan, allow us to escape from here with our lives. Flight was not an option in this instance, or else I would have retreated awhile ago. No, we would have to fight if we wished to survive to tell this misadventure to anyone who cared to listen to our babbling. "I'll take the one on the left."

"What about Padme?" demanded Anakin, plainly disconcerted about the idea of her battling one savage beast by herself.

Although I wasn't overly enamored of the notion myself, I didn't perceive a manner to circumvent it either. There were three monsters that we had to dispense of or stall long enough to affect a retreat, and neither my apprentice nor I were skilled enough to hold at bay two creatures at once. Besides, Senator Amidala would be fine until my Padawan or I could come to her assistance. After all, for a pacifist, she was well-versed in self-defense, and she was not likely to crumble under fire or dissolve into a hysterical fit of waterworks, or begin ranting about how her lawyer would sue us for this traumatizing experience.

My conviction was reinforced when I craned my neck to glance past Anakin and spotted that Senator Amidala had picked the lock of one of her restraints with the hair pin she much have tucked under her sleeves and had employed the fetters as a rope by which to climb to the top of her pole. There, she balanced, alternately fiddling with her remaining handcuff and yanking at the chain to loosen it from the pillar.

"She seems to be on top of things," I educated him wryly. Actually, she was doing better than either of us were, and definitely would not be requiring our aid anytime soon. Wonderful. Maybe, if we pleaded our case well, we could persuade her to save us, even if, ironically, we had been assigned to protect her.

Startled by my remark, Anakin looked over his shoulder at Senator Amidala. Then, turning back toward me again, he offered me a grin that contained a mere trace of the cockiness that I had come to regard over the years as being an essential and aggravating element in my Padawan's personality.

Something must have happened since we had parted to rattle the young man's confidence that so often bordered on arrogance, and I hoped that it had no connection with his detour to Tatooine― or his nightmares about his mother. If the mom he believed he had abandoned had passed away, my apprentice would be devastated. Yet, Tatooine was not about to be listed on the yearly _Holonet's Guide to the 1,000 Safest Planets_ anytime in the next century, and, for a slave, the myriad perils of that brutal world were multiplied threefold. Frankly, Shmi Skywlaker was lucky to have remained alive until her son was nineteen, just as Anakin himself had been fortunate to survive his upbringing as chattel in a rough settlement. It must have been she who had taught my apprentice about resilience and instilled in him the concept of his own self-worth.

But there was no more time for contemplation as the beasts lunged forward at us, and the acklay raced directly at me, its pincers gaping wide. I recalled having read that acklays were afflicted with nearsightedness, so if I performed this maneuver properly…

Just before the monster reached me, I dodged behind the column. Owing to his shortsightedness, the acklay continued its charge. Its pincers closed around the stake, right where I had been a split second previously, and the post splintered upon the impact. Tugging my shackles free, I took a swift inventory of my surroundings.

Anakin had leapt onto the reek's back somehow and had looped his chain around one of its horns. Apparently, this incensed the beast, for it kept thrashing its head about, straining against the fetters, and I calculated that it wouldn't be much longer before the cuffs imprisoning my Padawan pulled free. His inventiveness was truly impressive sometimes. Meanwhile, the nexu was attempting to scale the pole to attack Senator Amidala, who, as I watched, swung down on the chain and struck the creature with both feet, knocking it backward. She, too, would be able to fend for herself for awhile more.

At this juncture, the acklay had completed reducing the pillar to smithereens. Flailing its head, it peered around as if hunting for the tasty tidbit, namely me, that it knew should have been among the rubble somewhere. After a few seconds, it saw me and lurched forward again.

This time, I darted toward the edge of the arena, where the picadors with their electrojabbers were arrayed. Alarmed, one of their mounts reared. While its rider was preoccupied with soothing it, I grabbed the end of his electrojabber and jerked it out of his grasp. Planting the bottom of my newly acquired weapon in the sand, I permitted it and my momentum to carry me up and over the stupefied picador.

Not far to my rear, the acklay slammed into the picador's mount, and he toppled off it, screaming once before the beast's pincer tightened around him, quieting him forevermore. Although the other picadors, possessing some survival tactics, had scattered before the acklay's assault, they would soon regroup, I knew, but I would have to resolve one crisis before I solved another.

Overall, the picador's electrojabber was a puny weapon, but it might be enough if I could hit the acklay in the correct, most vulnerable location with it. Calming myself and drawing upon the Froce, I aimed and threw the electrojabber at the monster. To my relief, my weapon lodged into the side of the ferocious creature's neck. However, the emotion dissipated entirely when the screeching acklay dropped the picador's body and dashed at me again.

Well, that was a major help, I noted with an ample dose of sarcasm, ducking behind the deceased picador's mount. Luckily, even though the monster pursued me there, as I had anticipated, it did so a slower pace. This meant that I was able to remain ahead of it, though I could not manage to enlarge the gap between us.

I was just reflecting upon the hopelessness of my current situation when I glimpsed the reek rushing toward me with Anakin and Senator Amidala clinging onto its back, and the nexu bounding irately after it, probably seething at the loss of the meal that was to have been Senator Amidala. It seemed that my Padawan, for all he claimed to detest organic means of transportation, had discovered a method to steer the reek with the supernatural aid of the Force.

Taking advantage of the invaluable opportunity this scenario presented, I jumped up and landed behind Senator Amidala on the now very crammed real estate of the reek's back. Once I had found a means by which to clutch onto the reek, I peaked over my shoulder, trying to ascertain if the acklay was still on my trail. Relief flowed through the my veins when I saw that the nexu, deciding that an injured acklay was a worthy substitute for a woman as far as food went, had assailed the wounded acklay, who was too busy with warding off the cat's assaults to chase after the reek I was upon. Great. That eliminated two of our foes temporarily in one fell swoop. If we could escape soon, then we might really live to have nightmares about this. On a whole, that wasn't such a dreadful fate, especially when juxtaposed next to being trampled and devoured by a gargantuan, vicious beast.

My optimism was murdered soon after its conception when gates swung open all around the coliseum, and, to my stomach plummeting and heart pounding despair, droidekas rolled out of them. Our latest adversaries circled the reek and uncoiled, activating their shields and bringing their blasters to bear on us. As the flustered monster we were riding snorted and tossed its head, it whirled around frantically in a fruitless endeavor to evade the droidekas, which had surrounded the animal completely.

Without our lightsabers, Anakin and I could not hope to deflect the barrage of bolts the droidekas would lob at us, and all three of us would perish, despite the valiant struggle that we had put up and in spite of the fact that we had managed to defy death for so long in the face of some of the fiercest predators in the universe. Now, knowing that we had been crushed at last, I just wanted the droidkeas to shoot us and finish it all.

There was no method by which we could survive against all those blasters, so why weren't the droidkeas firing at us? Was this a perverse way the Geonosians taunted the condemned further― by compelling them to wait for certain slaughter instead of just inflicting it immediately? If it was, that was truly unjust. After all, we had provided more entertainment than the average criminal, I was sure with our manipulation of the acklay, kicking of the nexu, and brief taming of the reek. The least they could have done to reward our stellar performance was offer us the mercy of a quick killing.

With these notions swirling in my head, it was a moment before I realized that an abrupt hush had descended over the arena. Curious as to what would have prompted such a response from the masses assembled to watch us perish, I gazed up at the stands. When I did so, my eyes widened as cerulean and jade lightsabers ignited all over the coliseum.

There must be at least one hundred Jedi here, I decided, staring, amazed, at the emerald and azure blazes spaced throughout the arena. Then, as my focus shifted to encompass the Archduke's box, I gaped. At this distance, I could not distinguish the face of the man in Jedi robes standing next to Count Dooku, but I didn't have to in order to determine who he was. Only one Jedi possessed a purple lightsaber: Master Windu.

Mace Windu had led one hundred Jedi to Geonosis to rescue me. It was mind boggling, and I couldn't help but commenting inwardly through my relief that I hardly deemed myself worthy of such saving, especially when I had already transmitted the important data. Well, this certainly rendered the droidekas as less of an issue. Alone, Mace Windu could probably fell at least half of the droidekas on a bad day.

However, my assurance bubble was punctured when battle droids commenced pouring into the arena from all directions in such numbers that I knew our hundred Jedi would have quite a task cut out for them. While the Geonosians fled in terror as the onslaught of bolts started engulfing the structure they were in, the reek bucked, and I flew into the air. I touched down, somersaulting, and dodged a bolt. What must have been a minimum of a thousand droids were shooting, and I could not twist away from the bolts forever. Therefore, I required a lightsaber before I was killed, rendering this whole mission useless.

As if in answer to my thoughts, a lightsaber sailed toward me. Exhaling some of my tension, I snatched it and switched it on in one smooth motion. Then, I saluted the Jedi who had tossed it to me, or whom I imagined had had thrown it to me, although in the mayhem that was overwhelming the coliseum as Jedi and droid fought until organics were reduced to blood and bone and inorganics to scrapnel, it was challenging to determine who exactly had accomplished what deed. Courtesies done, I parried four bolts back at the battle droids, as I noticed with relief that Anakin had been furnished with a lightsaber as well now, and Senator Amidala, who was an accurate shooter, had attained a blaster from an out-of-commission droid.

I already sensed in my gut, with that icy feeling deep down inside my chest that something was about to transpire that would alter all of us forever, and I didn't wish it to, but I was hopeless to prevent it. I knew that there would be a distinct "before" and "after', a "was" and a "will be." All of us would never be quite the same beings that were were before this battle if we even survived it, and that was far from a granted. Still, Anakin, Senator Amidala, and I all had weapons now. That was a bonus. In warfare, one had to grip onto insignificant victories like that if one desired to remain sane enough to persist in the struggle, and the fight was all that mattered.


	13. Chapter 13

Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who was an inspiration to all people with his brave and determined resistance of injustice. It takes a true hero to answer violence with peace and hatred with love, and it requires a passionate orator to convince countless others to do the same, so thank you, Dr. King, for showing us all a nobler aspect of humanity. I hope he was smiling when he looked down from heaven at America's first inauguration of an African American.

Disclaimer: Firstly, no, I do not own Star Wars for all you geniuses out there. (My screenname is "Lioness", a feminine noun, and George Lucas is a manly man, as demonstrated by the fact that he devised lightsabers, which, as Freud would reason, are phallic symbols. Last year's AP Psych course got to me, what can I say?) Also, for the record, I am not very skilled at writing action sequences yet, although I am gradually improving, or that's what I keep telling myself, at any rate. Therefore, I am sorry if you find the battle on Geonosis subpar. Remember, while my cousin is the one is on a crazy amount of meds, late nights at hospitals aren't a bonus for one's sanity, either…

So, without any further ado, we'll progress to the actual chapter, which is what you might actually have wanted to read….

Execution Arena

The battle on Geonosis was the fiercest that I had ever had to endure― a million times more terrible than the conflict on Naboo had been a decade previously. Since the era of the Sith Wars, so many centuries ago, Jedi had not been embroiled in such a vicious conflict. Thus, we had never been trained in how to handle a situation such as this, as we had never envisioned that we would ever be entangled in such a circumstance. This fact was clearly depicted in the carnage throughout the coliseum that testified more eloquently to our ignorance than words ever could.

All around me, the fight intensified, with the stadium resounding with the ping of wailing blaster bolts, and Jedi vaulting and pivoting, trying desperately to close into tight defensive clusters, their lightsabers pinwheeling in elegant dances to parry the shots. Yet, the sheer number of droids foiled their attempts to form a single, lethal unit, isolating individual Jedi and mowing them down.

Even if I couldn't have seen Jedi Knights and Padawans on all sides of me being wounded, sometimes fatally, by bolts as they deflected another volley fired at them by another droid that had encircled them, I could have felt it in the Force. In the air about me, I could sense the invisible, supernatural power that knotted all life together surge and retreat repeatedly as the Jedi scattered throughout the arena were killed like gnatflies. At times when a Jedi's passing did not wash over me, the Force battered me with stabs of anguish that indicated that one of my allies had been grievously injured or was mourning the loss of a close companion.

Yet, as much as the realization seared me, there was nothing I could do to aid the other Jedi, as I was too preoccupied with blocking the endless barrage of bolts the droids flooding the arena aimed at me and plowing down as many of my alloy adversaries as I could between countering onslaughts of shots to do anything else. If I ceased defending myself, I would just become another casualty in this debacle, and if there was something that this day did not require more of, it was death. Therefore, though it tore at my conscience, I continued fighting, acting as if I wasn't cognizant of the agony that pervaded every nuance of the Force.

It wasn't that the droids were such exceptional foes that provided them with a decisive advantage. In fact, they were the standard uncreative, scrapnel-in-waiting brand of Federation battle droid with the occasional droideka thrown in the mayhem for good measure. Still, it wasn't as if it demanded much in manner of strategic planning to crush an enemy under the pressing weight of raw numbers.

A gifted warrior could dispose of a hundred droids, but the hundred-first, which would march at him or her as inexorably as night would follow day, would be the demise of him or her, and the legions of droids would persist in streaming into the coliseum until every last Jedi was dead.

Myself, I felt as if I had dismantled a battalion of the mindless automata, but I knew as surely as I did that Coruscant was the capital of the Republic that we were no closer to victory. The only way that we could possibly win was if we managed to destroy the thousands upon thousands of droids on Geonosis, and I did not require the services of a mathematician to inform me that the odds of our achieving such a miracle were in the purely theoretical range. However, such notions were demoralizing, and despair could murder you in a location like this, so I evicted these ideas from my mind.

In the fray, I had lost sight of Anakin and Senator Amidala eons ago, but I refused to fret over the issue because distractions were deadly in a conflict such as this. After all, I had enough of a connection to both of them to ensure that if either of them perished, I would sense it. Besides, there was no need to fear for them too much. My Padawan was a prodigy with a lightsaber, and he would be more than capable of holding his own now that he had been furnished with one. As for the Senator, now that she had a blaster, she could fend for herself as well as anyone could in a battle. Even if she couldn't, I could depend on my smitten apprentice to protect her should the occasion arise.

Sometimes, I didn't have a clue in the haze of death and demolition how long exactly, I found myself back-to-back with Master Windu. In tandem, our blades charged into a squadron of droids, chopping down several with deflected bolts and slashing through the rest. It was always a spectacle when the lethal effectiveness of Vaapad in the hands of its grim creator was utilized, and Mace Windu did not disappoint now. As far as I could discern as I struggled to remain alive in all this insanity, he was smashing through a control panel a second.

Since we could trust each other to guard one another's backs, we could increase the number of droids we both felled by a considerable margin. I was even reflecting with optimistic folly that we were beginning to make some headway when my mood was dashed again.

Although no amount of battle droids could separate Mace Windu and me because we were so attuned to each other, the bulk of the reek was too much for even a pair of lightsabers to contend with. As such, when the irate beast raced at us, we had no alternative but to dive apart. The reek ran after Master Windu, and I was about to dart after them to assist him when the acklay, who apparently had missed the snack I ought to have been, launched at me, its colossal pincers snapping menacingly in the air.

"Straight ahead," I muttered to myself, as much to reassure myself that I was still alive by hearing the dulcet tones of my own voice. I twisted to the left and then to the right before rolling at the monster between the mighty limbs and pincers. I came around and over with my burrowed weapon and stabbed a burning hole in the fierce creature.

Striving to mash me underneath it, the brawny acklay lunged forward, and I sprang upwards again as we collided. This time, I landed on its back, and jabbed it several times before dismounting when the beast recognized what was enfolding.

"Straight ahead," I cautioned myself again as the wrathful monster charged once more. At the very last second, I noted the blaster bolt soaring at me from the side, and I directed my lightsaber at it, so that it ricocheted right into the near-sighted acklay's astonished face. Yet, the beast's steps did not flag, and I was compelled to toss myself onto the moist, crimson sand to evade a closing pincer.

Somehow, I somersaulted away, dodged a stomping leg, and managed to slice out again with my weapon, cutting a deep gash in the massive creature. This time, the acklay howled in anguish, but continued to assail me as more bolts were fired all about us. Taking advantage of the crossfire engulfing the arena, I whipped my lightsaber around, diverting the blitz of bolts onto the onrushing beast, finally stunning it to a halt.

Then, I rushed onto the temporarily vulnerable monster, pushing my weapon into its chest. When I dashed past it, I heard it topple to the ground, thrashing frantically about in its violent death throes. I only registered this triumph enough to conclude with a dose of resigned relief that crisis was over, and now it was time to resume the major fight against the droids, which now seemed to be not only far from winnable, but perilously close to ending with our defeat in the imminent future.

Slowly and surely, the droid army forced me to retreat further and further toward the center of the coliseum, and there was nothing I could do to prevent their maneuvers. Granted, I could stave them off briefly, which I did, but, despite these minor victories, my overall direction was one of regression rather than progression.

Worse still, I was wearying. My muscles were becoming sore, as if the sand of Geonosis had seeped into my joints. Sweat was trickling down my face, obscuring my vision, and my back, owing to the sweltering weather of this benighted planet combined with my exertions. With my throat dry and blanketed with the grit kicked up in the skirmish, it was challenging to breathe, and my clothes and skin were coated with a revolting amalgamation of sand, oil, and blood. Assuming I survived this nightmare, I would never be clean again.

When I could afford a glance around me, I learned that the remaining Jedi, who were fighting brilliantly through their fatigue, were all trapped in a similar plight. No matter what we did, the droids were relentlessly herding us all to the middle of the stadium, where they could exterminate us all in one fell swoop.

The only plus to this was that my Padawan and Senator Amidala had come into my line of vision once again, meaning that I had the opportunity to catch sight of them a final time before we all perished. They were a flawless team. While Anakin parried all the shots fired at them, his comrade blasted droid after droid. Despite their magnificent teamwork, even they were being forced backward to the center of the arena.

Oh, how I detested warfare. Every moment― no, every millisecond― of it was a torture infinitely more horrible than anything described in the lurid myths of hellish afterlifes on so many worlds. At least the souls tormented in such places deserved the pain they were in. However, the beings in this bloodbath around me had committed no crime that warranted such harsh treatment. All those idiotic, naïve statesmen and writers who glamorized and lauded war as an admirable institution― as the crucible that dragged the finest elements of sentient nature, courage, self-sacrifice, devotion to something superior to oneself, and even wit to the forefront, ought to be compelled to endure it before they babbled on about the wonders of the experience with such certainty.

They should have to witness the desperation of organisms who were centered mostly on the objective of living until the next second and destroying as many of their opponents as possible before they, too, were slaughtered. Once those who idealized warfare affixed their eyes on the scores of Jedi, some as young as eleven, strewn inert throughout the coliseum in a hundred different postures― some with absent arms or legs or chests peppered with blaster bolt craters― they would comprehend that there was nothing splendid about it, unless one happened to be a sadist. If they could see the wounded that fell to the ground being trampled over by squads of battle droids before an ally could raise them to their feet once again, then they would cease advocating war and start promoting diplomacy, instead.

It wasn't much longer before I was shunted into a ring of still-standing Jedi. Dazed, I counted my exhausted, almost-dead-on-their-feet brethren, and was appalled to discover that only twenty of us, including myself, Mace Windu, and Anakin, but excluding Senator Amidala were alive. The rest of the Jedi must have been slain. No wonder the sand on the Geonosian arena was now stained with blood and soaked with dark splotches of the substance. No wonder so many corpses covered the stadium, laying in the grotesque positions they had been massacred in.

The pain that this notion prompted to spasm through me rendered it impossible for me to notice that the droids had halted their assault for a moment that contained a millennium. How could so many of us be butchered in such a short timeframe? How could Jedi that I had worked, practiced, studied, and dined with be alive one day and gone the next?

I wasn't positive precisely how it had enfolded. I just knew that, as difficult as it was to accept, it had occurred, and my only consolation was that scrapnel from all the dispatched droids littered the stadium. My fellow Jedi had been killed fighting for the Republic and everything it symbolized. That was how they would have wanted to depart existence. I would not dishonor their sacrifice by questioning it.

"Master Windu," Dooku's drawl echoed through the aptly-named execution arena, and I registered the ceasefire now. "You have fought gallantly. You are worthy of recognition in the history archives of the Jedi Order. Now it is finished."

Frankly, if he believed that, he had been smoking too much hookah. This bloody business would not be complete until every Jedi in this coliseum had been annihilated, something that was, at best, a handful of hours away. Jedi battled scum like him until our dying breath, even if there was no hope that we could win such a struggle.

It didn't signify that there would be nobody to recount this heroic stand on Geonosis. After all, the immortality afforded by being the stuff of legend was overrated. Personally, I had always been convinced that if our most celebrated galactic heroes and heroines had magically been resurrected, they would not have been able to distinguish themselves in the songs chanted about them, in the games toddlers played about their adventures in the crèche, and in the tales that children whispered to each other at night long after they should have been asleep. Even if nobody recalled what had happened here, Jedi blood had sanctified this place, and nothing could alter that fact. No feeble words of the living could detract from the final, ultimate sacrifice of the dead.

After a delicate pause, Count Dooku resumed in the magnanimous tone of a dictator who was willing to imprison a group of subjects who had partaken in a rebellion if they conceded defeat now because they had provided an exhilarating entertainment. "Surrender and your lives will be spared."

"We will not be hostages for you to barter with, Dooku," snapped Mace Windu, his deep voice firmer than ferrocrete, although he had to foresee what the orchestrator of the Separatist movement's reaction would be.

We all did. All around our circle, our last bastion, Jedi re-adjusted their grips on their lightsaber hilts, or shifted their weapons to their other hand. Some stepped nearer to a neighbor who was more injured than they were, as if they could shield their companion when the droids would be ordered to massacre us all, and the droids had an overwhelming advantage of numbers that would permit them to succeed in this venture. It was only a function of time before we all fell, vanquished and motionless, onto the blood-soaked arena floor.

"Then I'm sorry, old friend," remarked Dooku, as if he were the actor in a lame holodrama assigned to deliver the eulogy at the funeral of the two young lovers who had imprudently committed suicide since they each had imagined that the other had perished, and they desired nothing more than to join them in death. Here was a gentleman who truly relished theatrics that allowed him to fiddle around with his prey before he devoured it, no matter how vulgar the practice was. "You will have to be destroyed."

Well, that was no surprise to anyone with half the brains cells that evolution had supplied a bantha with, I observed inwardly, as he waved an indolent hand at the legions of battle droids, and they lifted their blasters in response. Every Jedi steeled themselves for this last ditch defense, ready to fight as long they could, even though they recognized that they would die anyway. However, it transpired that we need not have done so.

"Look!" Senator Amidala shouted abruptly, pointing up into the sky, which was tinged scarlet as if to commemorate those who had been butchered on Geonosis. At long last, too late for at least eighty Jedi who had been callously slaughtered, salvation had arrived, which implied that it had been stuck in a traffic jam as it typically was.

As all the beleaguered eyes of those of us trapped in the middle of the execution arena riveted upon them as if they contained the elusive secret to eternal life as opposed to offering a temporary respite from mortal danger, six gunships descended upon the coliseum. In a dust cloud, they landed around us, clone troopers charging out of the open sides, an occurrence that would have shocked me if I hadn't been numbed by what had already transpired here. Phrased bluntly, the universe could have ended right now, and I wouldn't have even batted an eyelash. After all, my universe had already shattered about me, or, at any rate, it seemed as though it had.

A maelstrom of laserfire provided a warm reception to the newcomers, but the artillery vessels already had their deflector shields up and that covered the debarkation of their soldiers.

Amid the chaos and flaring bolts, Master Yoda appeared in the doordrop of one of the gigantic ships, gesturing for us to board them quickly. None of us required telling twice. Emerging from our amazement at being reprieved at the last second, everyone lurched to the gunships en masse. As I boarded the nearest craft with Senator Amidala and my apprentice, I glanced at the archducal box and noted that it was already vacated, its inhabitants having fled to safety at the first indication of real peril for them. Watching a battle, obviously, was no fun if it wasn't a mass execution.

We're not anywhere close to being finished with this horror story yet, though, I told myself as the vessel we were on rose out of the stadium and into the air. There were still Trade Federation ships to contend with― and Count Dooku to handle.

With Senator Amidala and Anakin beside me, I crouched next to the open side of the gunship as it sped across the expanding battlefield outside the arena, its laser cannons blaring, and its shields returning the answering fire from the droids. Below us, clone troopers darted about on speeder bikes, shooting down dozens of droids as they wove deftly through the air. Even further below, thousands of clones confronted battalions of droids on the dunes of Geonosis.

"They're good," I stated, although I had expected nothing less from Jango Fett's offspring, and Anakin bobbed his head in fervent confirmation, his eyes wider than they were when he had landed on Coruscant for the first time a decade earlier.

Then, our attention was wrenched back to our own catastrophe as the craft we were on approached an enormous Trade Federation starship and commenced shooting at the other vessel, which had minimal impact upon the giant, although we were taking quite a bombardment from the other ship.

"Aim right above the fuel cells," my Padawan advised the gunner in a holler. Displaying the unhesitating compliance and lightening reflexes promised by the Kaminoans and Fett in their human wares, the gunner obeyed him, and huge explosions rocked the hostile battleship before it tilted ominously to the left. As our gunship and others close by like it swerved aside, the Trade Federation vessel tumbled down to Geonosis, where it combusted upon making contact with the planet.

"Good call," I congratulated my apprentice as our craft slowed and banked suddenly, encircling a droid automated enemy gun emplacement, soaring too rapidly about it for its stationary system to swivel in response to this threat. A ferocious barrage from our vessel devastated the defensive system entirely, although it mustered the energy necessary to aim a single shot our direction, knocking our gunship askew.

"Hold on," I warned Anakin and the Senator, clutching the ledge of the gaping dropdoor and striving not to imagine what would happen if I toppled out of it.

"Can't think of a better idea," yelled back Senator Amidala, as the two of them grabbed onto the edge as well.

I opened my mouth to reply, but my words were lobbed off before I had even figured out what witty comment I was going to provide everyone within earshot― which wasn't a large group, given the noise engulfing the present scene― with the free service of when I spotted a speeder whipping past, an unmistakable figure in the open cockpit. A pair of fighters flanked it on either side, and the trio were swiftly heading away from the main fighting. Obviously, Count Dooku had no qualms about allowing others to die for his beliefs while he escaped from the peril.

"Look over there!" I called, jabbing a finger at the fleeing Count Dooku of Serenno.

"It's Dooku," exclaimed Anakin, establishing the obvious in case Senator Amidala or I had recently been blinded. Turning his head around, he commanded the clone pilot, "Shoot him down."

"We're out of ordnance, sir," the pilot educated him without gazing away from his controls.

Curse it, I groaned mentally. With Dooku within firing distance, it seemed like all our shots had been squandered since we couldn't disable his cruiser. Why couldn't we have caught sight of him earlier? Well, there was no profit in ruminating gloomily upon that, I reminded myself as my apprentice ordered the driver, "Follow him."

As crazy as it sounded, that was the best we could do. We could continue to track Dooku, and when he stopped, we could confront him. It wasn't nearly as efficient or as certain of success as destroying his ship, but it was all we could do. Somehow, Anakin and I would have to find it in ourselves to overcome the renowned swordsman Count Dooku. Well, I'd rather battle Dooku with my Padawan than without him, so I ought to be grateful for the Force's minuscule mercies. Actually, it wasn't such a small mercy when I considered that many Masters had probably lost their apprentices today, and many Padawans their instructors.

"We're going to need help," pronounced Senator Amidala.

"No, there's no time," I asserted. In the time it required for reinforcements to arrive, the Count would have disappeared from the planet, and we could not afford for that to happen, because, as he had already demonstrated by creating the Separatists, he was too much of a threat to the Republic to be permitted to exist.

As the clone pilot sent our vessel skimming in Dooku's wake, and our craft closed in on the mastermind of the Separatist plot, his escorts diverged, one veering left and the other right to engage our gunship. Our clone pilot was up to the task, navigating smoothly though their fire, but then a stray blast exploded beneath us, jolting the ship. Caught off-guard, Senator Amidala lurched sideways, toward the edge. Reflexively, Anakin stretched out a hand to steady her, but he, too, had been unbalanced by the vessel's abrupt motion, and, therefore, he was unable to grab her before she plunged out of the craft.

"Padme," he yelped, as horrified as a wet behind the ears journalist who had just uncovered that his world's senator took graft. Still recovering from the surprise of her tumbling out myself, I was about to reassure him― to remind him that it wasn't such a tremendous distance to fall and that the ground was relatively soft, so chances were that she would be fine as long as she was discovered by friends not foes― when he pivoted and barked at the driver, "Put the ship down!"

"Don't let your personal feelings get in the way," I instructed him sternly. The words might have sounded callous, but chasing Dooku was more important than rescuing the Senator, because if the man who had orchestrated the Separatist coalition was allowed to go on living, millions more beings would be killed, and Senator Amidala wasn't worth that steep price. Since her existence revolved around fulfilling her obligations, she would, to her credit, have been the first to acknowledge as much.

Duty was never pleasant, and the moment you felt least like completing it was the time when you needed to do so the most. Thus, Anakin was obliged to pursue Dooku, even if his heart pleaded with him to save the woman he loved. Being a Jedi was all about sacrificing one's desires, even one's wishes to save loved ones, when the greater good demanded it, and the sooner he faced this stark reality the better it was for him and the rest of the galaxy.

Without waiting for an answer from the young man, I pivoted and addressed the pilot, "Follow that speeder."

"Lower the ship," Anakin growled at the driver before he could move to comply, glaring at me.

The bewildered clone pilot glanced between my Padawan and me, clearly unsure of whom he was supposed to obey in this instance. Someone needed to explain the Jedi hierarchy of command, in which Masters outranked their apprentices, however insolent, to the clones, but there was no time to do so now. Now I had a headstrong Padawan to reason with in what would doubtlessly be an uphill combat as it generally was with him.

"Anakin, I can't take Dooku alone." I locked eyes with him, meeting his tumultuous, roiling gaze with my own steady one, striving to instill some of my focus into him. "I need you. If we catch him, we can end this war right now. We have a job to do."

I had dared to hope that this reminder coupled with the backhanded compliment about his talents with a lightsaber would convince him that I was correct, but yet another one of my wishes was cruelly smashed when he retorted, "I don't care." Then, before I could prevent him, he repeated to the poor, befuddled pilot, "Put the ship _down_."

"You'll be expelled from the Jedi Order," I declared baldly. Strictly speaking, this technically wasn't one hundred percent accurate. Although the Jedi stance on personal relationships was uncompromising, the Council understood that it was in the nature of sentients to form these bonds, and tolerated the occasional romantic lapse of a young Jedi, as long as the offender returned to the fold afterwards. Still, ultimately, it always came down to a heart-wrenching choice between the Jedi and the individual one was in love with. However, forcing this decision upon my apprentice might prompt him to see reason. Perhaps it was severe to shove a choice of this magnitude at him after all he had endured today, but my kindnesses, especially when they pertained to Anakin Skywalker, always adopted a convoluted nature, so that they would not be recognized for what they were. After all, just as a liberal was a conservative who had been arrested yesterday and a conservative was a liberal who had been mugged last night, a cynic like me was really just a sentimentalist petrified of himself and the wreckage that would ensue if he let his emotions do the steering. And the more time Anakin spent in love with the Senator, the more it would devastate him when they parted. The longer one was attached to a person, the more challenging the farewell was.

Fortunately, my ultimatum was successful. Suddenly, my Padawan appeared far less confident, and he swallowed hard, staring back at Senator Amidala, who had landed on the bottom of a dune.

"I can't leave her," he whispered, but there was no conviction in him anymore. My gamble that he did not want to leave the Order despite his current frustrations had obviously been a safe one. If I pushed again, he would falter and abandon his post entirely, and I offered this last impetus.

"Come to your senses." I maintained a sharp tone even while my heart was breaking for him. I would have given away any of my few belongings to ensure that he never had to experience the indescribable agony of choosing between the Jedi and the person one loved more than life. It would have been so much easier for him to travel through his existence without falling in love, because lover never rendered anything simpler― just more complex and painful for everyone ensnared in its web. Yet, my getting rid of all my scant possessions wouldn't be any benefit, since Anakin was a human being, after all, and humans were made for falling in love, just as hearts were created for breaking.

Sometime, when we managed to find a moment of peace following all this lunacy, I would explain to him that life wasn't about what you could have or keep, but rather about what you could bear to lose. Now he had to decide if he could live without Senator Amidala or without the Jedi. If it assisted him in making his selection, I would point out that the galactic divorce rate was over fifty-percent, whereas the Jedi retention rate was in the ninety-ninth percentile, indicating that the Jedi path was perhaps a more satisfying and certainly a more stable one.

At my terse words, Anakin's head jerked up. When he faced me, I was alarmed by the hatred that I thought I detected therein― not hurt at my tone, or anger at being forced into this position. No, I saw in his expression loathing for me. He despised me for coming between him and the woman he adored.

Don't be ridiculous, I chastised myself a nanosecond later. You are imagining things. It's been an exhausting day in the heat, and now you are starting hallucinate, that's all. Anakin might be furious at you, but he could never hate you. You're the closest thing he has to a father― he admitted it himself. Still, the fact remained that I had believed I had glimpsed every spectrum of emotion that could cross my Padawan's features, and yet I had never encountered that particular, almost murderous, expression prior to now.

"What do you think Padme would do if she were in your position?" I inquired in a milder voice, treading carefully around this new Anakin. Actually, I was surprised myself when Senator Amidala's first name spilled from my lips. Before now, I had always referred to her by her title, as formality and manners dictated, because I had judged our relationship to be nothing more than a professional one. However, she had travelled to this horrid planet with the intention of rescuing me when there was no responsibility on her part to do so― which made her a friend, I supposed.

Yes, Coruscant's sky was about to tumble down on over a trillion organisms because I had claimed friendship with a politician, but, on a whole, there were far worse sentients to be buddies with than Padme Amidala. Best of all, I could constitute her as a friend and not turn back to aid her, since I knew that she would not desire anyone to neglect their obligations on her behalf. Besides, she could probably save herself. She was very skilled at that sort of endeavor.

My question compelled Anakin to reach the same conclusion, albeit with the same reluctance many beings would display on a march to the gallows, a metaphor that I was positive was accurate owing to firsthand experience.

"She'd do her duty," he confessed in a tone that was barely audible over the wind whistling past us. There it was: the essence of that charismatic and resilient woman summed up in one simple sentence. She did her duty, no matter what it cost her. On a whole, it might not have appeared to be glowing praise, but it was quite a compliment in today's galaxy, where everyone was aware of what they were entitled to, but no one could identify what they owed society in return, which was a major contributor to the decadence in the Republic.

Satisfied by his concession, I pivoted and ordered the pilot to track Dooku, pretending not to notice my apprentice's slumped shoulders or how he gazed at the ground long after Padme had receded from view.


	14. Chapter 14

Zooming low, our vessel trailed Dooku to a hangar tower. There, our gunship landed just long enough for Anakin and I to hop off before it returned to the main fray. While the craft that had transported us sailed back toward the heart of the battle engulfing Geonosis, my Padawan and I headed inside the edifice― Anakin barely pausing before he barreled through the door with his lightsaber tucked snugly in his hand.

Shaking my head, I followed him into a cavernous docking bay, which was packed with cranes, control instruments, tug-ships, and workbenches. Inside, we uncovered Count Dooku placidly fiddling with a control panel as we strode in. A sleek interstellar Solar Sailor, designed for both speed and style, rested nearby, prepared for take-off.

"You're going to pay for all the Jedi you killed today, Dooku!" snarled Anakin, his face contorting into an ugly mask of ire that I had never witnessed before. Warning klaxons sounded within me, but there was no time to remind him that Jedi did not pay homage to the id and the Dark Side by engaging in the petty, puerile practice of inflicting revenge upon others. Vengeance twisted the mind and soul until a being was no longer recognizable as the individual he or she had been previously, but I could not cover this issue with him now. Blast it, there was never the time to speak with my apprentice when circumstances demanded it the most, I noted with an inner groan, as Dooku looked up from the controls, feigning surprise at our arrival, although he had to have been cognizant of our presence prior to this. This pretended alarm was yet another one of his ludicrous games. Well, I wasn't in the mood to play another one.

"We move in together," I instructed Anakin quietly, drawing my own weapon. "You slowly on the―"

"No, I'm taking him now," he snapped, plowing on ahead as if my directive were as valuable as counterfeit currency.

"Anakin, no," I shouted after him, although it was already too late to prevent him from committing his latest lunatic escapade. Like a charging reek, my apprentice raced at the Count, his borrowed forest green lightsaber poised to cleave the other man in half.

Smiling as if this were as amusing as one of the handful of truly funny comedies that had ever been devised since the advent of civilization, our foe thrust out his hand at my oncoming Padawan. In a demonstration that plainly revealed that he was no mere warrior enemy, Dooku sent a potent Force push at Anakin that was accompanied by a flash of Force lightning that cackled all about my trapped apprentice and lifted him up in the air as if he were as light as a diki feather.

Astonishingly, Anakin clung tenaciously to his lightsaber as he was propelled across the chamber and crashed against a distant wall with a velocity that I did not desire to ponder. As he slumped to the floor at the foot of the wall, I examined his aura in the Force and was relieved to learn that he wasn't seriously injured. He was just unconscious, and that was nothing novel for either of us. We collected distinguishing features like we were convinced that they would earn us an eternal position in a hall of fame.

Still, I could not afford to wait for him to recover, since Dooku was already moving toward me, his lightsaber ready for a duel to the death, and I would not disappoint him.

"As you can see, my Jedi powers are far beyond yours," remarked Dooku with serene flippancy.

"I don't think so," I countered with all the frigidity I could summon. His Sith powers were undeniably out of my league, but not his Jedi ones. As far as I was concerned, he had lost the honor of calling himself a Jedi when he had abandoned our Order, and he had annihilated any vestiges of kinship when he massacred so many of our number today in the arena.

Despite my confident comment, I was aware that, alone, my chances of defeating Dooku were so long that even a Corellian wouldn't have gambled in my favor, and everybody who had requested a brain to go when they were handing them out knew that Corellians relished taking the riskiest wagers in the galaxy, apparently for the sole delight of watching themselves go bankrupt. Not only was my adversary a master swordsman according to Jocasta Nu, whose assessment I had no reason to doubt the veracity of, he was also well-rested and fresh, whereas I was weary from the confrontation in the coliseum, and felt as if I was at least a century older than the universe.

Yet, I still had to try to vanquish Dooku. If there was a chance, no matter how comically thin, that I could defeat the devisor of the Separatist plot, I had to seize at it, even if the endeavor cost me my life. I owed it to the galaxy, to the Republic, to the Jedi, and to myself.

Gritting my teeth, I raised my lightsaber and cut at him, deciding that there was no profit in staving off the inevitable battle, and that it was better to commence it on my terms, rather than his.

With a smirk, my opponent deflected my first blow easily. He barely needed to move to parry the second and third strokes, as well. "Master Kenobi," he drawled with the mock sorrow befitting a person who shows up at the wake of another whom he had despised and defamed as much as possible in life. "Yoda holds you in such high esteem."

And since when had the gravest enemy of the Republic been privy to the thoughts and emotions of the Grand Master of our Order, anyway? It had to have been at least a decade since the pair of them had discussed anything, and, if Dooku had been disaffected and on the brink of leaving the Jedi, I did not believe enough in my own significance to imagine that my name had been mentioned by either party once. No, Count Dooku was taunting me, striving to exploit every Jedi's desire to please Master Yoda in the hopes of manipulating me into doing something stupid.

As if chasing after Dooku with only Anakin for backup hadn't been idiotic enough, I snorted to myself. Speaking of my apprentice, now would be a swell time for him to regain consciousness. Yet, my Padawan did not awaken. Grimly, I rallied myself and pressed on with the battle. My exhaustion was starting to tell on me, though, something that could be discerned by anyone who had not checked out of Hotel Brainy eons ago. My breath came in harsh, grating gasps, and I retreated, hoping for a respite.

"Come, come, Master Kenobi," Dooku urged me, the derision in his tone heavier than a fully grown male Wookie. "Put me out of my misery."

Taking a deep breath and reminding myself sternly not to surrender to my temper, I resisted the temptation of educating him that a death by lightsaber was far too swift and too humane for him, and dove into the fray once more, my energy store replenished by the brief lull in the action.

Surprised by the ferocity of my assault, my foe relinquished ground. For a foolish moment worthy of the mind of an intoxicated Weequay, who were among the dumbest species in the known universe and were the type of beings who would really label top secret documents as such in gigantic and bolded font, I envisioned that I might be able to conquer Dooku, after all. Then, reality caught up to and trampled over my fantasies, as usual, when I discovered to my chagrin that, even drawing on the Force for aid, I was too tired to maintain my grueling pace for long. Within minutes, he was driving me backwards once more.

He was in control of this meeting, and any attempts to deny it on my part were byproducts of a wishful thinking that might get me killed if I wasn't careful. As I retreated again, Dooku quickened his attack. His every action was both economical and elegant; his glowing weapon seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once. Truly, he was a master of Form II, an ancient style that had not been popular among the Jedi since the battle droids had been invented, as it was better against sentient rather than metallic adversaries, and I was nothing more than a mere novice by comparison. If I wanted to dispatch Dooku, I would require the assistance of Mace Windu or Yoda, neither of whom were present. Wonderful.

Such dispiriting notions distracted me from the duel for a crucial second, and I missed a block. As a result, Dooku's weapon slashed into my shoulder. The agony was incredible and utterly indescribable. Fireworks exploded in my brain in all the colors of the rainbow, and moisture pooled in my eyes. Until that instant, I had never understood precisely what it felt like to have one's eyes water with pain, although I had employed the expression on countless occasions, just the way nobody was actually aware of how it felt to be sat upon by a Hutt largely because all those who that had happened to were regrettably no longer among the living, but people persisted on using the phrase anyhow.

As the pain surged through me with more fury and might than a tidal wave on Kamino, my lightsaber slowed a fatal fraction. Exploiting my vulnerability, the Count's weapon hummed out and sliced into my thigh.

My whole galaxy dissolved into agony, and I was hardly conscious of anything as my leg gave under the pressure. As I stumbled like a being who was at least twenty ales over the Coruscanti legal limit against the wall, my lightsaber slipped out of my hand. I could not muster the strength or brains it required to scoop it off the floor where it had fallen with a clatter. Feeling oddly serene, most likely due to the endorphins my body had released into my bloodstream as natural painkillers, I watched the weapon that embodied my existence slide across the ground.

With remarkable detachment, as if I was witnessing a poorly-acted death in a low-budget holovee rather than about to meet my own tragic demise, I saw Count Dooku raise his arm for the final blow. Automatically, I braced myself for the searing blade lashing through me for the last time, and then the numbing oblivion of death that would exterminate all of my pain forever. Mostly, I was at peace, except I couldn't help wondering what exactly would happen to Anakin if I perished right now.

Perhaps my Padawan was contemplating the same issue. At any rate, as Count Dooku's lightsaber danced through the air, it was intercepted by the brilliant bar of light that was Anakin's borrowed weapon. His face a taut mask of determination, his eyes blazing, my apprentice attacked his enemy with a savage abandon, forcing his foe to retreat away from me. Apparently, spotting my imminent death was all the restorative he required. After all, the pair of us were like the vicious nek battle dogs bred on the planet of Rutan; like them, we would shred each other in play, but the second one of us was threatened, the other would defend them to the death without thought.

"That's brave of you, boy, but foolish," Dooku declared calmly, once he had recovered from his alarm at this abrupt assault. "I would have thought that you'd learned your lesson."

"I'm a slow learner," Anakin grunted, and then lurched forward again, unleashing a wild storm of swings and strikes. To my shock, the power and untamed nature of Anakin's attack caught the Count aback and forced him backward. At first, Dooku looked just as stunned as I, but he recovered rapidly, not willing to grant his adversaries the satisfaction of seeing his amazement.

"You have unusual powers, young Padawan," the smirking Count Dooku conceded, "but not enough to save you this time."

"Don't bet on it," retorted Anakin.

Yet, I thought through the mist of pain and fatigue that fogged my brain that Dooku's analysis was correct. Despite his awesome abilities, Anakin was no match for the years of training that had honed the mastermind of the Separatists into one of the best swordsman in the galaxy. Not yet, at any rate. The only way that my apprentice could hope to emerge the victor from this conflict was if he had another wild card stowed up his sleeve, and the element of surprise was given to him. With this in my mind, I drained my last remaining reservoir of energy and called on the Force.

"Anakin!" I hollered, flinging my lightsaber at him.

Spinning, the addressed caught the weapon in his free hand and pressed forward. Still, even with the advantage of two lightsabers, he could not hold back Count Dooku for long. With a predatory grin, the Count commenced toying with him, knocking the extra lightsaber from Anakin's palm.

Retreat, I instructed my Padawan mentally, stall him. Perhaps Anakin could sense my advice and had decided to adhere to it for once, because he was moving backward again. The combat, I noted, had almost come full circle, for it was almost back to where I lay. Obviously, the Count had detected this, as well, because he determined that it was time to cease playing with his food.

Instead, with a wicked, twisted smile, he flicked out his blade with a speed to rival the lightning on Kamino, and Anakin howled with an anguish I had never heard in all of my years at his side. I didn't think the less of him for it, though. Anyone would have screamed like that if their right arm was lobbed off at the elbow. For my apprentice, however, it was worse than it would have been for the average human. After all, he loved working with his hands, whether it was creating or repairing something mechanical, practicing with his lightsaber, or piloting, and to lose his dominant hand was a cruel turn of fate. Sure, if we survived this by some miracle, he could get an artificial replacement, but it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't have as quick reflexes, and it wouldn't have the same flexibility.

All in all, I would have preferred if the Count had severed off my lower arm. Somehow, I suspected that he had sensed as much. Chopping off Anakin's hand directly in front of me was just one final bit of torture before he delivered the killing blow, which at this point would be a mercy, I concluded dumbly, as my Padawan dropped to the floor and curled up beside me, moaning.

His face one massive leer, Dooku closed in for the kill. However, he was forestalled when the hangar doors opened once again, and, to my astonished elation, Yoda walked in, his wooden cane clacking to announce his entry more effectively than a herald. As Yoda approached, Dooku pivoted away from us.

As he did so, Master Yoda bowed his head in a solemn, regretful acknowledgement. "Count Dooku."

"Master Yoda," returned the addressed, his manner scornful. Beneath his contemptuous façade, however, I sensed an eagerness to pit his skills against his first master, so that he could conquer his earliest teacher and demonstrate beyond all possible dispute that he had surpassed him. "You've interfered with our plans for the last time."

As he established as much, I felt him summoning the Force, and, an instant later, he hurled a river of lethal, cackling electricity toward the newcomer.

Appearing bereaved by this testament to Dooku's shift in allegiance from the Light to the Dark Side, Yoda parried the lightning easily, stating, "Much to learn, you still have."

For a fraction of a moment, Dooku's startled expression depicted how wrong-footed he was by the failure of his attack. Then, his eyes narrowed, as he lowered his hands and replied, "It is obvious that this contest will not be decided by our knowledge of the Force, but by our skills with the lightsaber."

As he asserted as much, he reignited his weapon and whirled it in the formal salute that all Jedi students were shown at the Temple. Reluctantly, Yoda withdrew his own lightsaber and responded with the same salute. It could not have been plainer if he had hung up a neon holobanner that the grandmaster of the Jedi Order had as little interest in sword contests as most organisms did in calculus, but he was dedicated to stopping Dooku, who had left him no other choice. Personally, this fact caused me to question whether the leader of the Separatists was as clever as I had assumed, since only an idiot would challenge Yoda with a lightsaber. Even Mace Windu couldn't beat him, and that was saying something.

In another display of surprising imprudence, Dooku raced forward. Bending his head as he always did when he was getting in sync with the eddies of the Force, Yoda shut his eyes and moved his weapon with seemingly no effort, deflecting every one of his opponent's attempts to penetrate his guard.

Aggravated by his inability to undermine his enemy's defense, the Count's attack grew increasingly frenzied, but to no avail. Breathing heavily, a defeated Dooku retreated. Yet, Yoda did not pursue him, knowing that his foe could not escape because he was blocking the Solar Sailor. Again, the Count slowed, and then he finally halted, his weapon crossed over Yoda's.

I could feel him call on the Dark Side in a vain attempt to press Yoda's lightsaber back, but the Dark Side was only the simpler pathway, not the stronger one. Reinforced by the might of the true Force, Yoda's blade was more immovable than duracrete.

"Fought well you have, my old Padawan," pronounced Yoda gently. However, he must have known how much the words would sting the other man. Somehow I knew that Dooku was not the sort of man for whom doing something well was enough. No, he was the type of person who, like Anakin, had to be the best, but he wasn't the greatest lightsaber fighter in the galaxy. That distinction still belonged to sage Master Yoda.

"This is just the beginning," riposted Dooku, glowering.

Then, there was a cresting surge in the Force as he yanked one of the service cranes off balance. Great. The mass of metal and wire was plummeting directly toward Anakin and me. I definitely didn't have the Force power it required to lift a goblet of water at the moment, and I doubted that my apprentice was in a much better condition, and our muscles were not strong enough to catch the crane and hold it aloft. That meant that we would die, crushed here under a crane like gnatflies. How humiliating, I grumbled to myself as my Padawan and I summoned our feeble stores of Force and tried to halt the toppling crane.

Despite our best efforts, it slowed, but did not stop. Now it was only five meters above us…no, four…actually, make that three…or two…I was just wondering if there was any possibility of my crawling out of the path of the falling construction equipment when the crane stopped suddenly in mid-air as if it had landed on some invisible table.

Yoda saved us again, I realized, as I sucked in a relieved breath, and our savior lifted the crane away from us and settled it safely on the ground away from us. Now that the danger had passed, pain and exhaustion overcame me entirely, and my whole world blacked out abruptly. It seemed as though I had perished without beholding the bright light that everyone insisted greeted one as one died and progressed to what was hopefully a pleasant afterlife. Oh, well. That didn't really matter, since at least the agony was gone and that was all that really was significant. After all, living, like immortality, was really overrated. Sleep was solar systems better.

Sometime later― it could have been minutes, hours, or years as far as I knew― my dreamless slumber was intruded upon as a burgeoning luminescence started to flood my mind, beginning in one corner, and expanding like a virus to conquer the rest of it within a few moments. Apparently, I was approaching the light the Jedi declared was present when a spirit attained union with the Force, which all very well and good, although I did not feel nearly as enthusiastic as I had envisioned that I would at such an eventuality. Maybe that was because I couldn't comprehend why in all the neighboring galaxies the pain inside my head was increasing, when at least the oblivion had afforded me the relative mercy of numbness, and I do not like that which I do not understand. If I had to become one with the Force, why couldn't I have its wisdom at long last? It didn't seem fair that I should have to suffer in the hereafter, too, but it wouldn't do to question the omniscient and omnipotent Force…

My eyelids must have flickered, or I must have offered some other indication of dawning awareness, for a voice asked tentatively, "Master?"

Hmm…something about that voice was awfully familiar, though it was an occurrence as rare as stumbling across an expanse of unfrozen water on Hoth to hear that particular tone. Hesitancy was not characteristic of anything about precocious Anakin Skywalker. Obviously, he was concerned about me, which meant that neither of us had perished, after all. The fact that I was still alive explained why I was afflicted with a headache the size of an asteroid and felt like I had just been dragged through a prickle-bush backward.

Well, I ought not to trouble Anakin, because it was my obligation to worry about him, not the other way around, and, not for the first time since Qui-Gon's death, that notion provided me with a paradoxical relief originating in possessing a definite purpose. As such thoughts raced through my newly awakened brain, I opened my eyes, an endeavor that was considerably more complicated than usual because some malicious or incompetent medic had clearly replaced my eyelids with permacrete, and took a groggy reconnaissance of my surroundings.

It transpired that I was stretched out on a narrow, springy sleep couch on a make-do sickbay of the starship that was conveying us back to Coruscant from Geonosis, I surmised. Nine other sleep couches, loaded with Jedi Knights and Padawans who had been wounded in the battle, lined the walls in two neat rows, and five crates intended to function as nightstands on which to place water pitchers and medicine, were situated between every pair of sleep couches.

Most of the occupants of the make-do medcenter were snoozing, except for the Arkanian girl in the sleep couch next to my Padawan, who had a bacta patch affixed to each shoulder and who was sitting up, sobbing into her pillow, and a male Zabrak Jedi Knight in the sleep couch across from me, who was propped up on his mound of pillows, gazing blankly at the alloy wall to the rear of me as if nothing in the galaxy would ever intrigue him again, and therefore, he would pay not attention to anything ever again, while a tube pumped painkillers and other healing remedies into his arms.

As for my apprentice, he was lounging on his sleep couch, flipping dully though a holozine that gossiped about celebrities' sordid liaisons with each other and illegal drugs, and that could boast of containing advertisements that were more factual than many of its articles.

"So, you're awake?" he inquired, tossing the tabloid onto the night-table with less muscular coordination than was typical of him, owing either to the medications he was on or his prosthetic limb replacement, or a combination of the two factors.

"I'm glad," he added before I could reply to such a pointless question that was easily answered. "It can get really lonely in places like this, and I hate being alone."

Understanding his words required a lot more effort than usual, since my head still felt as though somebody had callously smashed through it with a vibroblade, and Anakin might have discerned this for he waved a hand at the crate between us, commenting, "Have a stim, or two, or six. They work miracles, and I would know."

Mumbling incoherently through lips that adamantly refused to move as much as normal, I raised a hand, reflecting on how, ironically, one needed to have stim in order to have the energy necessary to grab one in the first place, fumbled around on the crate, discovered a stim packet, slit it open, and opened the pill into my mouth.

The impact was instantaneous: invigorating, refreshing, and soothing. Now I only felt as if I had been tugged through a prickle-bush forward, rather than backwards. That was quite an improvement, and as the fog cleared from my brain, I recalled everything and immediately wished for the stupor of unconsciousness.

I remembered the bitter taste of sand and blood mingling on my tongue as I fought to keep myself and my fellow Jedi alive in that execution arena where far too many of our Order had been slaughtered like farm animals. The stench of sweating beasts, roasting metal, and death deluged my nostrils, and I realized with a jab in the stomach that no aroma, however dulcet, would ever erase the smell of the massacre of Geonosis.

Once more, I observed the sickbay around me, and counted only ten Jedi present, including my apprentice and me. Force, only ten, I exclaimed inwardly, my brain protesting vehemently against this appalling statistic. I could have sworn that there were twice as many in the final circle on that sand that was stained scarlet with the blood of my murdered brethren.

Then, my eyes centered on the wailing Arakanian girl, and I noticed for the first time that it was improbable for a member of that lofty species to be bawling over mild injuries sustained to both shoulders. No, it would demand more to shatter an Arkanian's icy composure…

"Her Master was killed," whispered Anakin, detecting where my attention rested. With a slight tilt of his head, he gestured at the Zabrak across the room from me, "His Padawan was killed. That's about all I could get out of either of them, and they refuse to be consoled."

"They won't be the only ones in that situation if only ten of us survived," I sighed, trying not to remember the grief that had overpowered me when my Master had met his end on Naboo at the hands of a brutish Sith Lord. Losing a Master was like having an essential element of yourself murdered, and having your apprentice die would be even worse, because that was comparable to having your son or daughter perish, and children were supposed to outlive their parents. Yet, the Jedi who had lost their Masters or their Padawans would have to go on, somehow. They would have to cry, talk, meditate, or practice their lisghtaber techniques, or do whatever they did to endure until somehow they had come to terms enough with their grief to survive as long as their own lives lasted. We couldn't afford to lose any more Jedi now, and besides those who had died would want the rest of us to continue to fight for liberty and justice.

I also strove to suppress the nasty, self-loathing voice that hissed insidiously in my soul that about ninety Jedi had died to rescue me by reprimanding myself for the egocentricity of the idea. Besides, this was not the time for fruitless self-recrimation. Such emotions could be as instrumental as hatred in transporting one to the Dark Side.

"More than ten of us made it, Master," my apprentice educated me grimly, his jaw clenching and relaxing again in a steady, constant rhythm as he established as much. "Ten more of us are recovering in the medbay across the hall. A med droid told me so when I asked."

"Good," I remarked softly, although nothing about this debacle could be constituted as such, unless one was Count Dooku, who had managed to escape from Yoda thanks to his distraction with the falling crane, in which case everything had enfolded spectacularly. As far as I was concerned, the best thing about this catastrophe had been that my Padawan was not dead. Many Masters could not claim the same, after all, and any problems that existed between my apprentice and I could be mended as long as we were both among the living, because while there was breath, there was hope.

Perhaps Anakin harbored similar sentiments since he had not sassed me once since I had regained consciousness. Recognizing how simple it was to lose a constant companion one had the dreadful tendency to take for granted caused one to appreciate the aforementioned comrade more. At least, that seemed to be the case for the pair of us, and it was, at any rate, reassuring to contemplate that my last interaction with my Padawan wouldn't be a heated debate about the nature of duty. Speaking of which―

"Do you know how Padme is faring?" I inquired.

"Yes, Master," confirmed Anakin, his face shining at the mere mention of her. "The medical droid informed me that she has only a few bruises, scratches, and a sprained wrist to show for her fall before Barriss Offee sent it away to give someone a shot of bota and scolded me for hogging the emergency personnel. She's always nagging like that. It drives me up the wall."

"Barriss is still with us, then?" I demanded, some of the broken segments of my heart starting to fuse together again. Even though I had only worked with her for a few days on Anision, I had been I impressed by her. She was strong in the Force, clever, compassionate, and witty in addition to being a talented healer. Although she might have been too much of a rule-follower for my Padawan's tastes, she undeniably had the makings of a promising Jedi Knight, and I wouldn't wish for the flame of her potential to be extinguished along with so many others. Granted, she lacked the power of Anakin, but she was more stable, and that made up for it. After all, nobody had Anakin's raw power. The Force had seen to that.

"She is." Anakin bobbed his head affirmatively. "That's nice― now I can have another swimming competition with her, and this time, I'll win."

Recalling how Barriss had toppled off her mount in the Anisonian grasslands into a raging river and my apprentice had determined that it was advisable to dive off his own animal into the seething water to rescue her (she, it turned out, had not needed saving), and how it had resulted in the two young Padawans kicking through the river in a rabid attempt to reach the shore first, I nearly grinned. Nearly― but I couldn't smile, not so soon after so many Jedi had their lives cut short so suddenly. Maybe I would never grin again. Perhaps Geonosis had wiped away that capacity. Still, it was an amusing scene to revisist, however temporarily, and it was rendered all the more so by the fact that Anakin had not emerged the victor from this challenge. Sometimes, my Padawan was too focused upon being the greatest when he could have settled for just good. It wouldn't do him any harm to remember that he wasn't perfect.

At the present, though, I sensed in him more relief that Barriss had survived to pester him than a competitive desire to surpass her, which was befitting of a Jedi, and his tone was hushed as he murmured, "She's in the other ward now, but she was here twenty minutes ago to check on us all. Luminara also made it, in case you're wondering."

"Wonderful." Another weight was removed from my shoulders, because I would have mourned the loss of an insightful, intelligent, and dynamic colleague who was an asset in any confrontation where lightsabers were necessary if Luminara Unduli had become one with the Force. Shaking my head melancholically, I mused, "Stars and galaxies, we were stretched thin enough before this nightmare. Now, I don't know what we'll do."

When my Padawan, unsurprisingly, outlined no proposal of what our decimated Order would do in a wide galaxy that was now at war again for the first time in millennia, embroiled in a conflict that we were expected to play an integral role in due to a major casting error, I switched the topic to something less depressing. "How are you feeling, Anakin?"

"Physically, I'm as fine as can be anticipated, Master," reported the addressed on shrug. "Emotionally― well, I'm afraid that my sweet, infectious laughter may never return."

Glancing at him, I saw that he did appear healthy enough. His cheeks were pink, not ashen, and the smudges under his eyes had lessened because the sleeping pills he had been placed on had permitted him a few hours of tormentless slumber that he had so desperately required.

As for his psychological scars, while I could detect a vortex of agony, bereavement, and guilt whirling within him in Force like a sandstorm, I doubted that the damage was as horrendous as he portrayed it to be. Granted, Geonosis would always be imprinted on his heart, but he would accept the pain and move on, just as all mature organisms must do in the face of death, and it would take more than this horrible battle to destroy Anakin Skywalker. Cracking under pressure wasn't his style at all. Besides, at the moment, I really wanted to learn how he was coping with the chopping off of his natural arm and its mechanical substitute, whose wires and metallic casing were so different from bones, blood, and flesh.

"How is your arm?" I prodded gingerly. I had avoided looking at his right arm before, not desiring to make my apprentice self-conscious, but now I did so. It was as plain as daylight that the young man was not accustomed to his artificial limb yet, for he hugged that arm a little closer to his chest, as if to shield it from a peril that had already been inflicted upon it.

The sight wrenched my heart, and I wished fervently once again that it had been me who had lost a body part to Dooku. After all, it had been my idea to pursue him, even if it had been Anakin's decision to lurch at the Count in a completely brainless solo assault, something I might have chided him for at any other time, but I was convinced that losing a limb was its own punishment and left its own impression. Anyway, the most enduring lessons were those that had been taught without words.

"It's not as attractive as I would like, Master," Anakin declared in a matter-of-fact tone as if we were discussing the price of muja on Coruscant when compared to the cost of the same fruit on Corellia, "and it doesn't have reflexes as fast as my other arm yet. However, that can be healed with a touch of grease and some tinkering with wires, so I can fix that." As he asserted as much, there was no trace of the pride in his awesome abilities as there would have been just a few days ago, and I did not have the heart to explain that I feared it would not be so. After all, if anyone could achieve such a feat, it would be my Padawan. There was a mulish, forlorn note in his voice as he continued in a near-whisper, "I'm good at fixing things."

"There's no denying that," I agreed, hoping to spark his rakish smirk, even though I suspected that there was no profit in doing this. Geonosis had swept the arrogance out of Anakin, and he perceived the Jedi, and by extension himself, as fallible. Never again would he be the carefree youth I had spent the last decade in the company of, and I would have done anything to behold that cocky smile just one last time, which was ironic considering that when it had been his trademark, I had invested much time and effort into erasing it from his lips with caustic comments. Yet, I hadn't wished for it to disappear entirely. Well, losing the smugness of adolescence was a key component of the process of growing up. Still, there was nothing wrong with restoring confidence in my apprentice when he seemed so dejected.

"I'm just lousy at mending _important_ things," my Padawan persisted in berating himself, oblivious to my response. "I wouldn't have been able to save you if the rest of the Jedi hadn't arrived, and I wasn't able to rescue my mom, either." Here, Anakin's lips compressed into a hard line as if he was struggling not to cry, and I took advantage of the opportunity to speak.

"Anakin, I'm so sorry―" I began, extending a hand across the gap between our sleep couches to clutch his natural arm. Somehow, it did not matter anymore that he had defied orders to travel to Tatooine with Padme. If I had been acquainted with my mother, I might have done the same thing― Qui-Gon certainly would have. Besides, Padme had probably consented to the excursion to my apprentice's homeplanet, since she had done so when it came to traveling to Geonosis to rescue me, because she was not the type of individual that judged her life as more valuable than anybody else's. Thus, she would have endorsed a trip to Tatooine if there was even the remotest chance that it would save Shmi Skywalker.

There was also a treacherous contingency in my brain that maintained that Anakin's detour to his homeplanet was the Jedi's fault. After all, even though we had the resources to do so, we had never attempted to free his mom. Qui-Gon might have done it if he had lived, but I was not him. In general, I still had the habit of regarding sentients as tools to be employed to the maximum efficiency in acquiring the objective of a mission, since I lacked my former mentor's connection to and fascination with all organisms. Therefore, Shimi Skywalker had been forgotten while I went about the business of aiding whole planets. For better or for worse, I had focused on the big picture, and forgotten about Anakin's mother.

"Don't be sorry," he grunted, twisting away from me, because, apparently, he wasn't in the mood to be touched. "It's not your fault that's she's dead. The Tuscan Raiders killed her."

Aware of the brutality of this tribe of savages, who were even constituted as vicious on the cruel world of Tatooine, I grimaced. I had hoped that Shmi Skywalker could have gotten a quick, relatively painless death, but that would not have been the case if the Tuscan Raiders were involved. The Tuscan Raiders tortured, branded, and flogged their captives, whom they permitted to perish in the most agonizing ways devisable, through blood loss, starvation, and dehydration. When death finally came, it was a mercy. Of course Anakin's mom would have to suffer tremendously before she went. It was the galaxy's idea of fairness to have good beings endure the most awful things.

After a pause in which a trembling Anakin seemed to decide that he could not bear to describe how much his beloved mother had suffered at the end, he burst out, as if a dam inside him had abruptly caved in, releasing emotions that had been pent-up in him, "And it's my fault, as well. I'm as guilty as they are. I could have saved her, and I didn't. I was just a second too late, because I didn't listen to the visions until it was too late. If I had obeyed the visions sooner, I would have arrived in time to rescue her, I know it."

"You couldn't have known that your nightmares were literal, not metaphorical," I reminded him gently, because I wasn't going to allow either of us to space down the dangerous lane of what might have happened to a loved one if we had been a little bit swifter or a second earlier. Being an adult meant accepting that one made mistakes and striving to prevent one from occurring in the future. Wallowing in guilt was for infants, not grown-ups, and no amount of remorse restored the dead to life anyway, so it was best to keep on living twice as wise. "Dream interpretation is a mental quagmire, and even psychologists don't fully understand it. You can't be held accountable for not understanding your nightmares."

"But I did comprehend my dreams, Master," countered Anakin gravely. "I just didn't act on my understanding. Next time, I won't make the same mistake, though. Next time, I'll do better."

"Not all dreams are literal," I warned. "Just because this one was, that doesn't mean that all of them are."

"All of my dreams are literal," he contended. "I don't do figurative and symbolic. You do complex, Master, and I do straightforward."

There was no benefit in arguing about his dreams. After all, dreams were very personal things, and nobody could be as familiar with his dreams as he was, so he, ultimately, would know best. If they were meant to be literal, he would be aware of it, just as he had been cognizant of it when the nightmares entailed his mother. As long as he didn't permit his feelings to taint his judgment, he would be fine.

Silence fell between us for a time before my apprentice announced without any preface, "I was not aware that Dooku had been Qui-Gon's teacher or that he had been the Padawan of a Council member, Thame Cerralin."

"How did you learn this?" I frowned, deciding not to respond to this indirect inquiry, although my reaction probably confirmed the truth of his statement.

"Our friend told me," replied my Padawan, nodding at the Zabrak across from us, who was still staring at the wall as if it would be the salvation of the galaxy. "He was quite bitter when he regained consciousness and recollected that his apprentice was dead. He was rather unabashed in his criticisms of the Council and some of their decisions. For instance, he questioned the prudence of all the available Jedi at the Temple traveling here to save just one of us, and he lampooned Yoda and the others for not seeing what Dooku was earlier."

"He is entitled to his doubts, but he should not have shared them with an impressionable Padawan, whom he is not close to," I glowered. Honestly, my apprentice had enough difficulty abiding by the Council's dictates without this Zabrak Knight interfering to support his rebelliousness, and the Zabrak should have been sure that the Padawan he was conversing with would not have his training hindered as a result of the discussion. Now I would have even more trouble convincing Anakin to comply with the Council's decrees.

"I'm not sure he really knew who he was talking to, or even if he was speaking to anyone," Anakin informed me in a hushed tone. "After all, he kept calling me Reynard. I reckon that was his Padawan's name, and sometimes he got confused about whether or not his apprentice was alive or not― and when he remembered that he was dead, he just wanted to have someone to chat with. It didn't matter who or even if they were listening, as long as they let him talk, so I let him speak, and I even listened."

There was nothing I could answer to this. Grief caused people to act in scores of different fashions, and some probably would find it therapeutic and even cathartic to ramble on, releasing all their stored feelings to another organism who seemed to be hearing them. I wasn't like that, because I always found it difficult and disconcerting to share my emotions, but some discovered a solace in vocalizing what plagued them. Who was I to refuse a fellow Jedi some scant comfort when he had already lost so much? If Anakin could console the Zabrak, the Zabrak could borrow him for as long as he wished.

After a moment's quiet, Anakin noted resentfully, "The Council, it appears, did not sense that Dooku's future was clouded, or that he was too dangerous to be trained."

As many of his remarks did, his comment left me reeling. Insubordinate as it was, the observation offered an intriguing insight into my Padawan's psyche. When the Council had initially rejected him, I had not bothered to ruminate upon what he was thinking, since I had been too preoccupied with my own shock and even anger at what I had perceived as Qui-Gon's betrayal of me in front of the beings who led our Order, and convinced that the boy was too much of a risk to be a worthy investment. Later, once events and a pledge to a dying man had compelled to modify my viewpoint, my grief and the need to channel it into behavior appropriate for a Jedi had not provided me with the opportunity to examine how my apprentice must have felt the first time he stood before the Council. Since he had always seemed dismissive of the Council, I had never paused to think that their mistrust might have stung him so greatly.

Yet, it must have, because Anakin seemed to bear a grudge against them for their statements the first time they met even a decade later. Perhaps his attitude was merely a defensive mechanism, much as an excluded child will retort that they didn't want to play the game with the other younglings when really they had dreamed of nothing else. The notion discomfited me. Surely I had taught my Padawan well enough that a decision made a decade ago wouldn't rankle with him. Still, there was a definite bitter quality in his voice….

That caused me to ponder if Anakin might also harbor a resentment against me for being hostile to his training when we first came into contact with each other ten long years ago. A few days ago, the idea would never have intruded upon my relative peace of mind, but after I had glimpsed the loathing in his eyes on the gunship on Geonosis, I couldn't help but contemplate if that was the case.

Don't be an imbecile, I chided myself a second later. Anakin knows how much you care about him and how much faith you have in him. He has to recognize that while you may have taken him on as an apprentice to fulfill a vow made to Qui-Gon, you're teaching him now for his sake, not Qui-Gon's. He understands that it doesn't signify how he became your Padawan. He can see that while fate might have dragged us together, choice made us friends.

"The future," I finally responded in my mildest voice, paraphrasing Yoda, although I elected not to indulge in the aged master's garbled syntax, as messing with the standard format of sentences gave me a headache, "is ever in motion, and though we aim for the best, none of us is perfect or all-powerful, Padawan. You should know that by now."

"I know." Almost imperceptibly, Anakin flinched, and I scolded myself, because he didn't need to be reminded of what he regarded as his failure to rescue his mother right now.

Yes, it would take some time for me to accustom myself to this new Anakin Skywalker. Only a week ago, he would have countered with a cocksure observation about how he was perfect and omnipotent that would have resulted in our engaging in our typical meaningless banter. Now, though, he was subdued and morose as he scrutinized his inadequacies.

I was opening my mouth to reassure him that he was doing fine, no matter what he imagined on the contrary, when my apprentice inquired in an unsure manner that I had not heard since I had first taken him as my Padawan and we had been adapting to life with each other, "If Qui-Gon had been alive, do you think he would have fought against Dooku?"

"He would never have joined him," I retuned, perhaps a bit more sharply than I intended to, as if one could only be with a body or against him. My vehemence startled me, and I wondered why I had reacted so forcefully to the question. Then, I remembered the sensation of electricity tingling my skin and Dooku's sinister, charismatic tone discussing my Master with what had sounded eerily reminiscent of affection and mourning. Yet, it had to have been faked, of course. As a traitor, Dooku could not claim common grief with me.

"That's not what I asked, Master." Anakin's eyebrows rose, his expression revealing his surprise at my response.

"Yes, Anakin." I strove to answer the question with my usual calm once I had taken a moment to compose myself. "Qui-Gon would have fought against Dooku. It would have pained him to do so, but he would have recognized it as his duty as a Jedi, and he would have done it."

"Oh, it's―it's just that it would have been like a son turning against his father, wouldn't it?" faltered my Padawan.

It was true that the bond between a Master and apprentice was as profound as that between a parent and offspring, but being a Jedi was all about sacrificing oneself, and, so, if the greater good demanded that one battle a person one was close to who had joined the Dark Side, a Jedi was obliged to do so. It was their responsibility to the Force and to the Republic. An individual who chose which obligations to heed and which to disregard did not fulfill their duty, and nothing was more important than doing one's duty. The rest of the galaxy could tumble apart, but at least one could cling to one's responsibilities.

"No," I informed him. "It would have been a good man bringing an evil man to justice to prevent him from causing further harm to the galaxy."

"So you don't believe that Qui-Gon could ever have forgiven him, Master?" pressed Anakin.

That was a crucial question. Forgiveness was a moral that the Jedi emphasized, yet so was fairness, and that led to the unpleasant conundrum of where mercy ought to end and justice ought to begin. On a whole, I tended to favor justice over mercy, whereas my Master had been more inclined to prefer mercy to justice. Still, even Qui-Gon would have discerned that Dooku had to be defeated. Perhaps, in his heart, he could have pardoned Dooku for his actions, but he would still have to ensure that the man was rendered incapable of committing any more atrocities. To do otherwise wouldn't have been very kind to the poor people Dooku slaughtered, after all.

"Compassion is important to us," I explained once I had gathered my thoughts in a neat bundle, "and it was greatly esteemed by Qui-Gon. As I told you earlier, it would have wounded Qui-Gon to witness Dooku fall to the Dark Side, as, indeed, it has pained Masters Yoda and Windu, and he would have mourned the death of the man he had been familiar with. However, to descend to the Dark Side means to lose your path forever. What Dooku did was a mass murder, Anakin, and there is no other word for it. He violated everything that Jedi embody. Thus, in this context, forgiveness wouldn't really have been for Qui-Gon to give."

Since posing his question, Anakin had been studying the floor. Now, he lifted his head, and I was appalled by what I detected in his intense blue gaze. There was horror and self-loathing, as well as a deep, bottomless despair present. With a start, I realized that he was examining the shadow side of his personality. Most likely, he was considering his furious assault on Dooku, and wondering if that meant that he had fallen to the Dark Side. What he did not comprehend was that everyone had negative aspects to their character and was dominated by them occasionally. A momentary lapse was not tantamount to an all-out embrace of the principles of the Dark Side, and I would know, because I had my own brush with the Dark Side on Naboo when I combated the Sith Lord after Qui-Gon was killed.

"Don't confuse a brief lack of discipline or display of temper with falling to the Dark Side," I advised, as though he had confided his fears in me. "Everyone has darker elements inside them that they must confront, and, therefore, everybody has flashes of weakness. As long as one recognizes one's error and makes efforts to avoid a similar mistake in the future, it is not a cause for massive concern. It is only when a person does not realize that their behavior is wrong that they have surrendered to the Dark Side. Thus, lapses are worrisome only in so far as they prompt people to become accustomed to such actions, and make giving into anger more justifiable in the future."

"I understand, Master," Anakin mumbled, but he didn't sound particularly convinced. I was devising words to persuade him when he went on, flopping back against his pillows, "Force, I can't believe that only a few days ago we were leaving Anision. I feel like I've aged a century since then."

Somehow, he looked older, too. On Tatooine and on Geonosis, his youth had died. Whereas only a week past, he had been more of a lad than a man, he was now more of a man than a boy. Now that he had faced a death that had brought him to his knees, he was an adult. It was as simple an equation as that, and I wouldn't fret about him. After all, broken hearts could be stitched back together, and, although the scars remained, they still functioned, and that, in the final analysis, was all that mattered.

"You've seen enough death and destruction to last you for awhile," I concurred. "Maybe it would be beneficial if you took a break from it all."

"A vacation to where― an alternate universe where they aren't going to be at war?"

"No, a trip to Naboo," I elaborated. "Now that there is no more debate about the passage of the Military Creation Act, Padme will need to be escorted back home, and you should see to that."

"Me alone?" A hopeful sheen glinted in Anakin's eyes now for the first time since I had seen him on Geonosis.

"I figure that between you and Captain Typho, the two of you can manage to protect Padme on her return journey," I noted wryly.

"Well, it's touching to know that you have faith in Captain Typho, at least, Master," he stated with a half smile. Then, he leaned over and scooped up the holozine again.

Watching him, I wondered if I had made the correct choice. After all, not being blind, I had seen the overwhelming mutual attraction that existed between my Padawan and Padme on Geonosis, and leaving them alone together was a recipe for disaster, my mind cried. Yet, my heart contended that Anakin needed to escape the harsher realities of life, and glimpse the peaceful, beautiful culture of Naboo again, if only for a little while before we were both entangled in a bloody civil war. To remain remotely sane, one must keep in mind the sunnier aspects of existence, and an insane Force-user was never a positive organism to have roving the galaxy.

Sure, I realized that the relationship between Anakin and Padme might become very physical, but maybe that wouldn't be such a dreadful thing. That is, nothing about Anakin Skywalker's training had been normal due to his prodigious talents and the late start to his education. Maybe, because of his early attachment to his mom, he required an emotional connection with a female to stabilize him. Possibly, exceptions could be made for him if he did not draw attention to his affair with Padme.

Besides, even if he only had a brief fling with her, at least it would take his mind of violence, murder, and the Dark Side, and that could only be a positive thing. We both had enough of it for awhile. When he returned from his trip to Naboo, we would fight the Seperatists, but for now, we would both rest.

I would begin my vacation by napping now, and discovering how dreadful my nightmares about Geonosis would be.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is very short, but it's just based on that second to last scene in the movie, and that isn't very lengthy, so this isn't, either. Still, I hope you find something enjoyable in it, ladies and gentlemen.

Epilogue: The End of the Beginning

Two days later, I stood beside Master Windu in the Council chamber of the somber Jedi Temple, which was now thick with Jedi contemplating the loss of their friends and colleagues and wondering how things could have come to galactic warfare for the first time in millennia― debating inwardly what our generation had done so wrong to render us the first in a thousand years to be engaging in a civil war. We were by the window, staring out over the businesses and conapts of Coruscant.

As I gazed out the transparisteel, I mused on how simultaneously familiar and foreign the planetwide city appeared to me. For the most part, it was identical to the Coruscant I had known like the palm of my hand since childhood. The airtaxis still whizzed through the lanes without any regard for anyone else, the traffic was as congested as ever, the neon holoadvertisements were as bright in their false promises to the gullible as ever, and the airbuses were, as always, packed with commuters returning to their domiciles after a stressful and demanding day at the office. On the surface, it seemed like nothing much had changed, except for the titles of the latest holovees that were flashing in the holosigns.

Yet, I knew differently. Just as the blood red sun was setting now to end another bustling day for this ecumenopolis, an era in galactic history had ended. Where once peace and culture had reigned supreme, aggression and ignorance would prevail until dawn broke out again in all its incandescent splendor.

To me, nothing heralded the alteration more clearly than the only truly visible change on Coruscant since the melee of Geonosis: the stationing of clone troopers in their smooth white armor in the capitol of the Republic. Even though I was aware that the soldiers were here to protect the civilians in the case of terrorist attacks by Separatist sympathizers or an actual assault on the world, their presence disquieted me, and not just because they were a reminder of the vicious battle of Geonosis and all the Jedi who had not returned from it. No, the clones upset me since they were emblems of warfare, and the idea of warfare striking Coruscant, the heart and icon of civilization, rendered me noxious.

However, it seemed that most beings on Coruscant were not nearly as disconcerted by the clones as I was. Most of the general populace conducted their daily routines and hardly spared a second glance for the newcomers, ignoring them as thoroughly as they did the security holocameras in malls.

As for the politicians, the Senate as a whole appeared to regard the troopers as a blessing, since, not only did they mean that there would be no need to recruit or draft massive numbers of citizens, they also were an already perfectly trained army that could be employed on any front against the Separatists. Therefore, they tended to endorse the deployment of clone troops on Coruscant, since, allegedly, they made the civilians feel more secure. Personally, because it seemed to me that the citizens of this high-tech, cosmopolitan world paid the clone soldiers less mind than they did the duracete pathways they strode through the urban center upon, I surmised that the clone troopers actually soothed the delicate nerves of many a statesperson, who then displaced their relief on the general Coruscanti population.

Still, that fact really did not matter all that much. Soon, as more fronts were opened across the galaxy, the number of soldiers stationed here would inevitably have to decrease, unless the Kaminoans knew how to make new troopers in less than ten years time, which I doubted.

A second later, I recognized the callousness of my own ruminations. Was it not dreadful enough that the other Jedi and I were going to utilize legions of clones in a galactic wide conflict who, in reality, were only a little over a decade old, and who had never experienced existence outside the precision of the military, and who had never had a choice about whether they wanted to fight and die for a Republic they had no stake in? Apparently, it wasn't. No, I had to ponder if it was possible to have even younger troopers that were still expertly trained out in the field being shot to gory pieces by blaster bolts and being exploded into oblivion by grenades.

After all, it would be so much more efficient if we didn't have to wait a few more years for our soldiers. Cruel to the clones, yes, but so much more practical and beneficial for the rest of us, so the unfortunate troopers de-sentientized with numbers, like droids, rather than names like sentients, had to be sacrificed on the altar of efficiency. That was probably how the Kaminoans had been thinking when they dabbled into cloning science and got buried in it so deeply that they could never escape it, even if they desired to, which they didn't.

Deciding that such contemplations were a distraction, I asked the question that had haunted the rear of my brain since my delightful exchange with Dooku in the dungeons of Geonosis, "Do you believe what Count Dooku said about Sidious controlling the Senate? It doesn't feel right."

It didn't. Granted, the Senate was mired in bureaucracy because it was suffering from a major brain drain as a majority of the galaxy's more intelligent youths shunned public service, causing the governing body of the Republic to have issues figuring out how to enact laws about health care benefits and welfare for the destitute, who starved while the legislature debated for hours about the best way, theoretically, to assist them, and argued vociferously about how many political demigods could fit on the pin of a needle. Somehow, as comforting as it would have been to blame this whole mound of poodoo on Sidious, I couldn't do so.

Every one of us was accountable for what had happened to our government, and we would all pay the price for it. Yet, reform was possible, and secession was not only a coward's pathway out of trouble and objectionable realities, it was also a flee into the suffocating embrace of the Sith, which nobody ever left alive anymore than they did the asphyxiating hug of lethal serpents on many planets spanning the galaxy.

"Become unreliable, Dooku has." Yoda sighed his disappointment about how far and fast one of his greatest pupils had fallen from his chair behind us before Mace Windu, who had opened his mouth to answer my inquiry, could reply. "Joined the Dark Side, he has. Lies, deceit, and creating mistrust are his ways now."

Listening to Master Yoda, I reflected that Dooku was quite skilled in forming glistening spider webs of falsehood and confusion to entrap the universe, so that he could gobble it up once he had ensnared it, and more was the pity for both the Republic and the Separatists, because I suspected that Dooku would offer no mercy to either of us once he had captured us in his deadly masterpiece.

"Nevertheless, I feel we should keep a closer eye on the Senate," maintained Master Windu grimly, raising a hand. Always wary for menaces, of course he would harbor such a sentiment.

"I agree." Yoda nodded his consent.

That matter having been settled as much as it could be at the moment, Mace pivoted to face me again. "Where is your apprentice?"

So the Council was already planning on sending us to fight in the war again. Well, that was no surprise, since there was no other reason except to receive a new assignment that I would be summoned here now.

"On his way to Naboo," I responded. "He is escorting Senator Amidala home."

Once again, all three of us lapsed into silence, and I imagined that we were all contemplating just how lucky we were that the Chosen One hadn't perished on Geonosis along with so many others. Still, even though it had cost the Jedi a gigantic sum, we had won that engagement, and I elected to lighten the mood a touch by reminding my companions of that small consolatory scrap of data.

"I have to admit that without the clones, it would not have been a victory," I commented.

"Victory?" echoed Yoda, jolting indignantly upright in his seat. "Victory, you say?" Whirling around, I saw Yoda glance around the almost-empty Council Chamber, and his ears droop in despair. Before I could answer and concede that a confrontation in which an enormous fraction of its combatants died counted only as a success in a technical sense, he added, "Master Obi-Wan, not victory. Only begun, this Clone Wars has."

Wow, he was able to dampen a meeting more rapidly than a monsoon on Drongar. Obviously, he did not subscribe to the doctrine that leaders were supposed to inspire those under their command with stirring remarks. Instead, he seemed to judge that it was prudent to establish candidly the plain truth, no matter how revolting it was, as he had in this case.

The Clone Wars had only just commenced, and the casualties that we had sustained so far were only a bitter sample of the losses that we would be reeling under for a long time. Violence would expand like a plague across the star systems of the galaxy. Governments would be overthrown, cities would burn, citizens would murder their neighbors in the name of political ideologues that they did not comprehend in efforts to gain more land or riches, and everywhere, death, carnage, blood, weapons, and brutality would dominate. Yet, into this mayhem and savagery, there would be glimpses of the nobler aspects of sentinets. Battle was a crucible that shoved into sharp relief the best elements in some individuals and the worst in others. Combat would bring out the heroism beings imbued with the righteousness of a worthy cause could attain, the devotion that permitted a man to lay down his lives for people that had become in the fire of conflict like his brothers, and the courage that permitted sentients to defy all odds to achieve victory.

Like the rest of the Jedi, Anakin and I would be embroiled in this nightmare that we would not be able to awaken from any time in the imminent future, and it would define us. I could only wait for it to do so and hope that it emphasized the better side of us. When Anakin returned to Coruscant, we would discover exactly what we consisted of, because war was ferocious and merciless, but it flensed out the truth and stripped away the façade, revealing the actual inner natures behind the masks that those who fought in it once had donned everyday. It was a mirror that indifferently reflected reality back at anyone who dared to stare into its face, and I hoped that I had the strength and bravery it required to come into contact with the unadorned truth without any of society's lies, since civilization and all its comforts vanished like a mirage once the battles began.


End file.
